


Beyond the Beyond

by odetteandodile



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Abigail is a badass, Abigail's gay dads, Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Bones feels v bad, Chaptered, Escaping the plantation, Fix-It, FlintHamilton, Gen, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, OT3, Other, Post-Finale, Post-Series, Redemption, Return to Nassau, Thinking about Silver, ashebones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 52,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/pseuds/odetteandodile
Summary: It's been six months, and the plantation isn't going to be able to hold James for much longer--and Thomas knows it. It's time for James, Thomas, and Abigail to return to the real world, and all that they left behind.Meanwhile, Billy Bones is making his way toward the rumored location of Captain Flint. He knows the confrontation will likely end in his death--but he cannot live with his guilt as it is.As journeys converge and their path turns back toward Nassau, everyone must come to terms with relationships both new and old as they search for peace, fulfillment, and a happy ending.





	1. Scheming Again

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr as thatcharlottelewis

It was the chiming of the grandfather clock, and not the sound of Thomas’ voice which brought James back to himself. But he immediately realized that Thomas had in fact been saying something while he’d been away in his thoughts. He stirred and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Thomas’ mouth curved wryly, and James had the distinct impression that whatever he’d said, James had just proven his point by his inattention. And Thomas knew James knew. It hadn’t taken even a month of being reunited for the two of them to relearn the other so well that words were often unnecessary between them. It usually filled James with a sense of awe, which he experienced over and over, that Thomas was really here.

At this particular moment though, it gave him a pang of aggravation. Because Thomas was clearly pleased with whatever trap he’d caught James in during his moment of mental wandering.

“I said,” Thomas repeated, suppressing a smile, “that you, my love, have your scheming face on.”

James fidgeted a little, neatly snared. He glanced up at the clock and sighed. He had no idea how long Thomas had been watching him think, but he was certain that as guarded as his expressions would be to anyone else, Thomas had likely read the summary of his thoughts like a book as they passed over his face. He huffed.

“Mmm,” said Thomas. “You seem to be wearing it with more frequency these days. Tell me, what keeps your attentions so rapt that even a very interesting observation about Alexander Pope’s latest opus cannot draw you out?”

James sighed again, and rolled a baleful look at Thomas. But Thomas just smiled pleasantly, hands folded in his lap in expectation. In games of stubbornness Thomas always won.

“Just thinking…” he had every intention of leaving his true thoughts vague, but couldn’t help himself but go on under Thomas’ encouraging gaze, hurrying on in a rush so that he couldn’t stop, “have you noticed that the guard here is down a man of late? I think that large fellow—Jeffries—has gone for good. But why haven’t they filled his place? I wonder—”

Now it was Thomas’ turn to sigh, along with an eloquent eye roll. “Ah the same old tune I see. James McGraw, haven’t we been over this before? Why do you insist on dissatisfaction?”

James looked away, lines around his mouth deepening. In the six months he’d been a resident here, they’d had the same argument at least once a week for the last five. Once the first few weeks of glorious reveling in Thomas—alive! alive! alive! and still mine!—had passed, he couldn’t help but turn his eye to the bars of their admittedly comfortable prison.

“Why don’t you insist on freedom? Why don’t you grow weary of this gilded cage?” He cast a dour eye over the furnishings of the sitting room, which though of fine quality showed their age and dislike of the southern climate and added, “this tolerably gilded cage.”

“Because it is tolerable.” Thomas closed his eyes a moment, as if asking for patience. Then he leaned forward in his wing-backed chair and took one of James’ hands in both of his. They were the same hands he’d fallen in love with a decade ago—and yet they weren’t, anymore than his hands were still the hands of a wealthy London society lordling. He’d gained at least as many calluses in that time as James had scars. But they still fit together.

“It is tolerable.” He repeated. “Don’t you remember what intolerable looks like, James? I lived it. You lived it. I know you know that things out there haven’t changed.” His voice grew more heated despite his efforts to stay calm. “What is there out there for us but sorrow?” He waved an expansive hand toward the window behind James, paned with expensive squares of glass. “I remember what that world brought us—what it was for us to be together out there, don’t you? Where else could we live with the freedom we have here, where I can hold your hand like this and not fear?” He gripped the hand in question tightly, his voice rising. “Isn’t that the freedom that we wanted those years ago? What do I care about the world beyond these walls as long as you are here and we are safe?”

James looked chastened, and he brought his other hand up to hold onto Thomas’ white-knuckled fingers. “I know,” he said, softly, looking into Thomas’ eyes and seeing the past ten years of loneliness and suffering there. “I know. You’re right. It’s just…I did leave things out there undone and unfinished that I…I can’t help but wish I’d had the chance…”

“This is about John?” Thomas said, and the anger was gone from his tone. He raised a hand to cup James’ face, and asked gently, “you still fear for him?”

James nodded, closing his eyes. He was afraid of the tears that might well there if he kept meeting Thomas’ sympathetic gaze. It felt so strange to hear Thomas refer to him as John…for the life of him James couldn’t remember if he’d ever called Silver by his given name. Or had he? Those days they’d spent together were a whirl of color and violence and sadness and rage. Who knew exactly what names had passed between them then.

“I’m afraid…” he began, roughly, then cleared his throat. “I’m afraid he lives too closely with the things that were said and done in those last days.” He hesitated. “When he delivered me here there were things that passed between us—” Thomas raised an eyebrow, and James laughed dryly. “—words passed between us. I hung words around his neck that I wish I could remove.”

“And is that all?” Thomas asked, with unnatural perceptiveness.

“I miss…our home. Mine and Miranda’s.”

Now it was Thomas who looked down and away. Though they had shared everything since they were reunited, and though they both shared in the pain of Miranda’s death, it was still hard for them to speak freely about her together. It was too raw, and hurt too much. But James plunged on.

“I wish you could have been there…with her. She kept a garden there—you’d have been amazed to see what she was capable of.”

“No,” Thomas said, “no, I wouldn’t.”

“You’re right. You would have guessed all along—it wouldn’t have surprised you that she got the whole puritan church on that island into her pocket—they didn’t know if she was a prophet or a witch or an angel. And you wouldn’t be surprised that she taught pianoforte to the children, and that she kept her afternoon tea every day that she could.”

Thomas was smiling, but there were tears in his eyes too. “No it wouldn’t,” he said again, softly. “She never could surprise me because I knew she was only ever a constant surprise.”

James nodded, a gentle curve to his mouth as he thought about Miranda, framed in the doorway of their house. “I just keep thinking…that I want to take you there. Even though she isn’t…even though she isn’t anymore. That it would feel like the three of us could be together in some small way in her house. A large section of it burned but I…I keep thinking about us rebuilding it…replanting her garden…”

Thomas’ face broke then, and he brought his forehead down to rest on their clasped hands as a sob escaped him. James in turn brought his cheek down to rest on his golden hair. 

They sat that way for a few minutes, breathing deeply.

At last, Thomas raised his head, his face back in firm, composed lines and eyes serious. “Are you certain this is what you want? Are you absolutely certain we can’t just be happy here?”

James met his gaze steadily. “I am absolutely certain that I will be happy wherever you are.” He paused. “But if I try to think of spending the rest of our lives here…in this place…I simply cannot. This is not our home,” he added, fiercely. “This is a jail contrived by your father. And I want desperately to take you home. The home Miranda and I made for the three of us—even if we didn’t realize we were making it for you too.”

Thomas bowed his head, thoughtful. “I see.”

“Do you? Can you be happy here?”

“I don’t…know. I was profoundly sad and alone for so many years. When you arrived it was like the sun shining after a decade of darkness. Just having the light at all felt like it was beyond anything I ever could have dreamed. Now you ask me if that happiness could be fuller? I just don’t know the answer. I have not yet truly remembered what it is to dream of more.”

They both looked down at their clasped hands again, the sight itself a miracle.

An expansive silence enveloped them as they both allowed their thoughts to settle. The golden sunlight of late afternoon streamed in the window, dripping thickly into yellow pools on the somewhat shabby carpet. Too many afternoons just like this one had bleached much of the color out of this room, giving it an oddly hazy, faraway look. Thomas would have said it was appropriate, for a place that wasn’t meant to exist to have the appearance of being pulled out of time. James would have said it was appropriate for a place that society chose for its undesireables to have secondhand furnishings.

“Uncle?” a soft, fey voice interrupted the reverie. But it was a welcome interruption and both men turned toward the door, smiling at the dark haired girl who stood there, tentatively waiting to enter.

“Abigail!” said Thomas, cheerily, gesturing the girl forward. She smiled wide at the welcome, though she had had no reason to doubt it. Something in the experience of being sent away by her father for the second time had left Abigail doubtful of any and all affection. Each time Thomas and James were kind to her seemed to come as a happy surprise, even when it occurred many times a day.

She rushed forward, happily seating herself on the setee next to James, who immediately wrapped a strong arm around her. Abigail leaned her head on his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head. Thomas’ eyes crinkled watching them together. Ever since James had arrived and found that Peter Ashe had sent his daughter here he seemed to have adopted her. And Abigail in turn had taken it upon herself to show James the ropes of his new environment, though she had only been there herself a short while compared to Thomas. But it made him happy to see them protecting each other, like a fierce little daughter with her equally fierce father. It hadn’t taken long before they had insisted she stop calling them “Lord Hamilton” and “Mr. McGraw” and start calling them both “Uncle.” It had been worth it just to see her shy face light every time she said it and they answered.

“How’s our sweetheart?” James asked her, a little gruff but nonetheless sincere in the sentiment. Abigail and Thomas both grinned at the term of endearment coming from him in his gravelly voice.

“Feeling much better,” she answered, “though still not quite myself.”

Abigail had been bedbound for the past several days with a low fever that refused to be banished no matter how much rest she took. It was only the latest of a series of odd, lingering spells of sickness she’d had since arriving in the Americas. It was funny, she thought, that the climate disagreed with her so vehemently, when she’d spent her days in Nassau and on the sea feeling as healthy—or really healthier—as she ever had in London. In her darker moments, when she’d been in the stale, sticky air of her small bedroom for too long, she thought that it wasn’t the climate but rather the shadow of her father and his final betrayal clinging to her like a curse.

“You still look pale, and you’re much too thin,” Thomas said with concern, eyeing the dark circles around her eyes, and her fragile hand in his. “I wish you’d let us scold Cook about getting you something that can actually put some meat on your bones.”

She shook her head, smiling. “It’s not Cook’s fault,” she said in her curious, lilting way, “I just can’t seem to convince myself of the necessity of eating.”

The two men exchanged a look of worry over her head, which she intercepted, and laughed. “Oh Uncles, I’m hardly on death’s doorstep. Next week I’ll be my old self, the week after I’ll have taken some new malady. But you know they never seem to hold me for too long.”

“But you’ll tell us the moment you start to feel any worse?” Thomas said, fixing her with an intent look.

“And let us do something to help?” James added, a little aggrieved.

Abigail nodded. “I promise.” She looked back and forth between them. “But what were you discussing when I walked in? I was afraid I was interrupting…”

Thomas’ mouth twisted. “It seems your Uncle James has been planning his latest coup without informing the two of us,” he informed her, wryly.

Abigail’s eyes darted for a moment to James’ face in some flash of understanding, but ducked almost immediately to hide it. She wasn’t quick enough however, and Thomas saw both the understanding and the guilt. James’ face too remained almost entirely still, minus one very telling twitch in his jaw which Thomas saw clear as day.

“Aha!” he cried, “so this is not a one-man rebellion as I had imagined—you have been aiding and abetting one another right under my very nose!”

“Oh no Uncle!” Abigail said pleadingly, feeling an instant swell of regret for her secret scheming with James. She was keenly attentive to anything that hinted of betrayal. “It wasn’t that we wanted to go behind your back, it’s just…you seem so contented to…to remain…” she trailed off, miserably. James raised his eyebrows at Thomas over her brown curls with a somewhat smug expression.

Thomas threw his hands up. “Enough! I understand when I am outnumbered by my betters. You’ve quite boxed me in it seems.” He peered at Abigail. “But what can you possibly hope to gain from joining my dear one in this plot? Do you intend to return to London? You have friends perhaps who you wish to be returned to…?”

Abigail shook her head. “I thought…that is I hoped…” she paused, looking questioningly at James. He nodded his encouragement for her to go on, and she squared her shoulders, looking up at Thomas with that defiant, stubborn expression they had both come to know and love. Abigail looked at first like a gentle breeze could knock her down, but they had both seen enough to know that that impression couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I intend to accompany you to Nassau.”

Thomas couldn’t help but show his surprise. “Nassau? Whatever for?”

She shrugged. “What else is there for me here? Or in London?”

“But dear girl, what is there for you in Nassau?”

Again, she glanced up at James, and Thomas wondered just how long these two had been sharing this hope between them, in stolen moments in conversations when he could not or would not listen.

“In Nassau there is...” she began slowly, uncertainly as if she wasn’t sure how to put her dream into words, “there is opportunity. For a woman like me to be more than just…a woman like me.” She looked down, but then gazed at Thomas through her heavy lashes as she added, quietly, “And though I wish that I might have had the chance to learn how to take that opportunity from Lady Hamilton, I know that she would approve my desire to be more and make it so.” She turned to James, and squeezed his hand. “Miss Guthrie, too, I might once have sought out as someone to show me that path. But in their absence I am still certain that there is more for me there than there could ever be here.”

Thomas cleared his throat cautiously before speaking. Again, the invocation of Miranda had caught him off guard. “But your safety? Your health and comfort? Your reputation even, what of these things? If you leave this place behind it will not be so easy to come back again. I’m afraid the world is crueler than you can know.”

“Reputation!” James scoffed, before Thomas cut him off with a look, and he subsided into a sulky silence.

Again, Abigail gave Thomas that blazing, determined look with which reminded him that she had stared down pirate captains and New World tyrants.

“Am I healthy here? Have I a reputation worth caring about here when I am no more than an imprisoned orphan? How long will my comfort and safety last if the new owner of my father’s estate—a cousin who I have never met—determines my upkeep is not worth the yearly cost my father agreed to? What chance have I then?”

Thomas bit his lip. Then he nodded. She was right. They both were.

“So you two are both decided then, and I am the only weak link in our chain?”

James and Abigail smiled slightly at each other, and James took Thomas’ hands again in his.

“Never a weak link my love, only very occasionally a slow one. Which I think is fair, considering that I have always been a step behind you, you now taste only a little of your own medicine. But if you are ready, we are ready to have you join us in our plan-making, and have the chain be whole.”

Thomas met James eyes, and saw that there was a spark in them which he had not seen in a very, very long time. These months on the plantation had been a time for healing, for regrouping, and for forgetting. But that sparkle, and the beginnings of a smirk around his mouth spoke of an entirely different endeavor.

It was time to see what lay ahead for the three of them, and what life they might find outside the walls of this friendly tomb.

*** 

Unconsciously, Billy realized that he had been expecting his arrival to look much the same as the port at Charles Town had when they arrived all that time ago, still hoping that Peter Ashe could be won over and the pirates of Nassau freed.

But the entry into Savannah wasn’t anything like the Charles Town port. There were no great walls topped with gunmen—not even a true harbor. Instead, the sloop simply turned into a narrow channel, continuing the journey into the sandy landscape of the Georgia coastline.

He sat quietly near the bow of the small ship, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It was the first time he’d ever been aboard a vessel as a mere passenger with no tasks to see to or be responsible for. It was a strange feeling. Billy wasn’t sure it was entirely pleasant.

But as invisible as he tried to make himself, there was no way around the fact that he was and always would be a head and shoulders above a crowd, and could never truly go unnoticed. He kept telling himself that this was the reason why the crew were casting him sidelong glances each time they passed by his perch, or crossed paths with him at meal times. It was just his height, and his silence, which created an interest in him.

It wasn’t that they knew. That they knew what he’d done amongst the last crew he’d sailed with. That they knew how he had turned his back on his brothers. That they knew that he had tried to do so much worse. They couldn’t know. They mustn’t know.

Yet every time one of those long looks was cast his way, Billy cringed, certain he had been found out. And that when they realized who he was, he would never make it to his destination—a plantation in Savannah which he prayed was real and not just a myth, where waited the only man left on this earth who could give him the absolution he sought.

No, he thought—if any of these sailors knew that he was Billy Bones, crew killer, enemy of Captain Flint and Long John Silver, thief and traitor, he would never have made it this far alive. His tall frame would even now be sinking toward a silent grave in the blue depths.

Which, really, was no less than exactly what he deserved. 


	2. Nighttime Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Abigail plan for what awaits them in Nassau. Billy Bones receives a message.

After a decade in the tropics, James would have thought he’d be used to heat and humidity by now. 

But for some reason, he found the stickiness of this Savannah autumn particularly oppressive, especially at night. Perhaps it was simply knowing he couldn’t escape it. Or maybe the problem was that while Captain Flint had adapted to the climate of Nassau and the southern seas, James McGraw never had. And Captain Flint was gone. 

James heaved a deep breath and peeled himself off the damp sheets, moving quietly so as not to wake Thomas. It felt like his lungs refused to fill all the way here, like they were taking in air that was too heavy and thick for them to process fully. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, looking over his shoulder at the sleeping form next to him, which didn’t stir. 

He gave a sideways smile. Thomas had become a much heavier sleeper in these years since they last shared a bed. And he’d started to snore, ever so slightly. James laughed softly, knowing how vehemently Thomas would deny that he did anything of the sort if he were informed of it. Snoring was distinctly unelegant and ungentlemanly. And despite the many years between him and his title, Thomas was still the consummate gentleman. 

James smile faded. He knew some of the things that had passed which would have taught Thomas how to sleep heavily, how to guard his rest. And he knew there were many things they had not yet shared—just because six months was too short a time to remember everything that happened in ten years which the other ought to know. It was a slow process of re-twining their lives, going over that lost history together and stitching each other in to the stories and memories so that they could become one again with the other. 

Even though they had promised to tell each other everything, they both had to fight the urge to protect the other. Some stories were harder to tell—when you didn’t want to remember a thing yourself, it was doubly painful to force someone you loved to live it with you. 

James reached out, delicately, and traced the white lines of scarring that crisscrossed Thomas’ back with one finger. Thomas shivered, but still didn’t wake. These were one of the stories Thomas had not yet been able or willing to relive. James’ brow furrowed as he felt a familiar boil of rage. He had some idea of what a whipping like this looked like, and imagining Thomas’ gold skin splashed with blood, his kind blue eyes squeezed shut in pain…James looked away, hands clenched in fists.

Of course this reaction was one of the things that made it hard for Thomas to tell him how it had happened, he knew. He knew his rage made it harder for Thomas to relive—Thomas, whose defense against all hurt was cool remove. He’d locked his outrage away, knowing there was nowhere for it to go, and that it could only burn him up if he let it run wild. James sighed, flexing his hands deliberately. He wished it were easier. He wished those years of separation could just be forgotten, made not to matter now that they were together.

But then, that would mean that James would have to forget the part of his story that he found so difficult to share with Thomas. And his difficulty was an entirely different sort—he’d told Thomas of the pain, the violence, the dark deeds. What he had been unable to share with full honesty was the good that had also entered his life. The hope he’d felt and the friendship he’d forged which had lightened his burdens. He didn’t know how to tell Thomas exactly that he had loved someone in his absence.

Though Thomas knew, of course he knew. He’d asked questions astutely and kindly (was Thomas ever anything but kind?) about John Silver. Yet the stories had come out haltingly, much to James’ guilt. It was too hard to try to live in both worlds—where Thomas and John Silver existed in the same time. They were from different lives, lives Flint—no, James—didn’t know how to reconcile. And since he had no words to tell himself, neither could he find any to tell to Thomas.

But now they were staring down a return to Nassau. Together. And it seemed all too likely that his worlds, that Flint and James, were about to hurtle headlong into one another, and that the collision would either crush them irrevocably into one or destroy both and him in the process. 

There were so many things he still wanted. He wanted to sit on the veranda of Miranda’s house with Thomas, and read Marcus Aurelius aloud, and to imagine that she was there too, listening. He wanted to visit the graves of Eleanor, Charles Vane, and so many of his men who had been killed for him and by him. And he wanted to see Silver again, to tell him that he understood why he’d chosen the way he had. He understood why his love for Madi had been stronger than his desire for anything else, even Flint. But he wanted to tell him that even though Silver hadn’t chosen him, that Flint had loved him. 

Flint had loved him. 

And that was why he didn’t blame Silver for destroying all they’d worked toward for the chance to save Madi. Because he would have done the same for him, if he’d asked. That he had done the same, when Silver begged him to by pointing that gun at him. Captain Flint could still have won that day (as he guessed Silver knew). But he’d let Silver end it, because he knew it would cost Silver’s life to carry on. 

He looked over again at Thomas’ sleeping form, and his face softened. It still amazed him that this was real, that Thomas was alive. It would never have occurred to him even to look. He would have died never knowing. And Silver had given this to him. The love that they had shared was something different, but through it Silver had known him, and found the one thing that could bring James McGraw back to himself. He believed that Silver had loved him, too. And though he wasn’t able to choose him, he’d found a way to give James the love that would save him. 

James moved restlessly toward the window, taking a seat on the sill as he had done many nights since he arrived, and looked out over the moonlit tops of the orchard below.  
Somewhere out there, he hoped that Silver was with Madi, and that all his fears were unfounded. The things Flint had said to him…it ate away at James more than anything else, to think that in his hurt he’d doomed Silver to a lifetime of discontent. That because Silver had chosen his love of Madi over him, he’d poisoned that love out of spite.  
He didn’t know what they meant to each other now. What could they mean when they both had the love of another to put first? 

But he had to know, to prove to himself, that at the very least he had loved Silver as well as Silver had loved him, and that Captain Flint would not be a cause of sorrow—but someone who had been happy to see Silver find happiness. 

A loud snore from Thomas brought him back to the hot, humid little room. He smiled, and returned to the bed they shared, dropping a delicate kiss onto Thomas slightly parted lips. 

Once the final chapter of his story with Silver was written, he thought, then he’d be able to tell it to Thomas. 

***

Unfortunately, Billy’s paranoia proved to be all too well-founded. 

He awoke from a light sleep—he didn’t seem to be capable of any other kind these days—to perceive that the ship had stopped moving. They must have anchored at the mouth of the channel, rather than trying to traverse it in the dark. 

But then he froze, realizing that it wasn’t the stillness of the sloop around him which had disturbed his sleep. There was a note, tucked carefully between his boot (he never took his shoes off to sleep any more) and the edge of his gently swaying hammock. 

Billy’s eyes darted around the long, dark cabin, trying to spot whoever had left it. He was certain it was the placing of it that had woken him, so the messenger wouldn’t have been able to move far. Three of the ten hammocks in this space were occupied currently, apart from his. He squinted, but couldn’t make out anyone’s expression in the gloom. At least not without examining them more obviously. But he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction. 

Inching his hand down, trying to move as little as possible, he reached for the envelope. It wasn’t particularly hard—ship hammocks were never intended for someone of Billy’s height, and as a result his arms were usually in reach of his feet, his knees crooked up toward his chest. He flinched a little as the hammock creaked against its rings, but shifted his knees slightly to cover the sound. Just as quietly he broke the seal, and eased out the single folded sheet inside. 

It was an austere message, scrawled in charcoal. It was simply his name, Billy Bones, written in blocky letters atop a smudgy, dark black spot. 

It didn’t surprise him. In fact, he thought as he refolded the page and placed it back into its envelope, it was almost a relief to be facing the moment he’d been waiting for. He wasn’t afraid. He felt resigned. There was nothing he could do about it whatever he felt anyway. 

He rolled over, facing the rough-hewn planks of the ship’s interior, and closed his eyes. 

The moment Billy had woken up, battered but alive in the surf of that god-forsaken island, he’d known he was living on borrowed time. He had to assume that even if no one on this ship had recognized him, successfully reaching his destination would most likely end in a swift death at the hands of a righteous, avenging Captain Flint. He had tried not to undertake this journey. He’d tried to think of anything else he could do, any way and any where that he could instead just start afresh and forget everything that had passed. But he couldn’t. He was driven toward Flint like a ship caught in a storm. All he could do was ride it out, knowing that any moment could be the one that sunk him. 

So today, if he woke up, if he didn’t wake up—it was all the same to him. 

*** 

Abigail, too, was awake, though not because of the heat of the night or the noises of any nocturnal companions sharing her space. She was quite alone, and in fact had been woken by a sudden chill which shook her body—her persistent fever, taking a firmer hold at night than it was able to maintain in the light of day. 

She shivered, and rose from her bed to wrap herself in her good dressing gown. She wished she had an extra blanket to put on her bed, but the housekeeper would not have thought to provide one for any of the residents during this lingering autumn when the complaints were focused exclusively on the heat. 

Abigail wrapped the robe around her with only a moment’s pause to frown at the delicate floral pattern of roses sprinkled across it. Every single item in her wardrobe seemed to be infected with flowers, and there wasn’t a single piece that wasn’t some baby-ish hue of pink or yellow or white. Her father had apparently directed whatever servants had put together her wardrobe to be sure no one could mistake her for anything but a virginal damsel. She hated them. And she hated him. At least, when she wasn’t grieving that he was gone. It was complicated. 

She sighed, and pulled the blanket off her bed. She knew there was no possibility of returning to sleep soon, so she instead settled herself in her armchair beneath the window, with the blanket across her lap and dressing gown pulled high around her throat. It was probably stupid to sit next to the window in the night air like this, but she didn’t care. 

She leaned her arms on the sill, and lay her head across them, gazing down at the plantation. Her room was at the front of the house, so her window looked across the garden which the residents tended when it was their turn for outdoor duties. Abigail could also see the tall gates, which led to the long dirt road, which led to the dock on the river, which led to the ocean, which led to the rest of the world. Such a small obstacle in the schemed of things, a contraption of metal and wood, guarded by two even smaller bodies. Yet it might as well have been an ocean itself for all that she was able to cross it. 

Abigail narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the dark silhouettes of the two guards on duty. Though the moon was half full, there wasn’t enough light for her to be sure who it was standing watch. If she could see them, she would have known their names, even the names of their wives and children. All the guards here made a point to introduce themselves to the residents, as if they were friendly acquaintances. But she knew that veneer of friendliness would vanish immediately as soon as anyone tried to push their way past those iron bars without permission. 

Permission! Abigail snarled internally. Something she would never have now. Had her father known that his life was in peril when he sent her here? If so, would he still have shipped her off with the funding for an indefinite stay, knowing it could be a life sentence if he died before giving further instructions for her release or transfer? She didn’t know. She had realized in that last day with him that she really didn’t know anything about the father she had always loved and admired, and thought so brave. Now all she knew was that he was a coward who had betrayed his friends for status, and had died as a direct result. All that was left to her was a conflicting swirl of grief and anger that could not be untangled. 

So it was fitting that he had left her with only the clothes of a girl-child. As long as she was here she was doomed to live out her life that way, no matter how her face and body aged. Fitting too that a part of her ransom had been that awful clock, which now stood in the sitting room, ticking away the moments of her life yet never looking any different. She imagined it would stand there another hundred years and never change. 

Abigail stood, letting the blanket fall to the ground, and strode to her wardrobe. In the top drawer she dug past her chemises, stockings, and pantalets to a bundle which she pulled from the back and carried to the bed. 

Carefully, she unwrapped the laces which held it together (pulled from an old corset which she refused now to wear), and spread out the fabric, touching each item in turn as it rolled onto the bed. 

The knife was first, glinting in the soft starlight. It wasn’t large, but it was sharp—a fish knife made for fileting the scales off Friday dinners. She’d stolen it from the kitchen nearly three weeks ago, and made sure she’d timed her theft for right after sharpening day, when Cook had her nephew come to hone all the blades. The small flask of brandy was also the nephew’s, and she hoped the loss of both would be embarrassing enough for him to stay quiet and not mention the missing knife. 

Next to the knife was a piece of flint and striker. She had no idea why she might need to start a fire, but it seemed like a good thing to have. 

The fire starter was slightly tangled in the meticulously wound length of rope she’d managed to ferret out of one of the garden supply sheds. The leather gloves and wickedly sharp awl shared the same dubious origins. 

Really, it was absurd how easy it was to get away with stealing things when you had voluminous skirts and the low expectations of being a frail woman at your disposal. 

Abigail gazed again at the road that curved away from the plantation, lit dimly in the light of the moon. The only way to grow up was to leave this place. Life was down that road, and she intended to follow it, and soon, to wherever it led.


	3. Fate Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas comes to terms with the escape, Billy's fate catches up to him, and James makes a plan.

Lord Thomas Hamilton was peeling potatoes. 

It was far from the most humiliating task he’d performed in his decade on the plantation—in fact, he rather liked peeling potatoes. It was peaceful work, satisfying and repetitive. It also had a distinct naval quality to it, like swabbing decks. When he’d first arrived, he used to imagine himself telling James all about his adventures in potato peeling—how he’d gotten so good that he could often peel all the skin off in one long ring, and hardly ever cut his fingers on the knife any more. He’d been certain he knew exactly the kind of indulgent, knowing smirk James would give as he congratulated him, the one he saved for when Thomas said something particularly high-minded or naïve. 

He’d stopped imagining that, though, as the years had gone on, in favor of just putting his head down and completing the days’ work. After a while it had hurt too much to pretend that this world would ever again come in contact with anything from his former one. 

At least, until the night that Abigail Ashe had arrived, bundled into the sitting room by a pair of grim-faced servants and left to recount how she had witnessed the death of Lady Hamilton and her father’s plans to execute James McGraw that very day. 

Thomas looked over at Abigail, who was also on kitchen duty today. Abigail was on kitchen duty more frequently than he, a nod to her more delicate feminine temperament he supposed. He suppressed a smile at the thought, and watched Abigail for a moment as she chopped carrots. She had a crease between her eyebrows, and her chin was set stubbornly as she hacked at them. Thomas wondered if she wasn’t imagining something other than carrots under her blade. 

He chuckled and shook his head, returning to his potato mountain. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Abigail and James had been colluding without him. Those two were more similar than either of them knew—full of fire and obstinacy. He’d seen it almost at once, in Abigail’s dark eyes and the set of her jaw as she confronted the plantation staff. It had taken them a little longer, distracted, evidently, by her flowery dresses and the bow in her hair, tricked into thinking she was some retiring maiden. But Thomas had known a dark-haired spitfire or two in his day, and he hadn’t made that mistake. 

He’d heard her name spoken by the staff preparing her room, and of course known immediately who she was. So he’d sought her out the very next day, hoping to remind her that she had known him once, a long time ago. To his surprise she’d recognized him instantly. Though of course the reasons for that recognition became clear all too quickly as he learned why he had so lately been recalled to her mind. 

They’d wept together that first night, as she told him about Miranda. And in turn, he had shared with her stories of James McGraw, the young lieutenant he’d known and loved, and she had told him of Captain Flint who had rescued her, and they mourned him too. 

Then word had come of Peter Ashe’s death, and Captain Flint’s escape and the wreck of Charles Town. Thomas had held Abigail as she cried, grieving for a father she loved deeply yet felt she no longer knew. And Thomas had shed a tear or two of his own, for the friend who had once been and the choices he’d made. 

But it was no more than one or two—because his regret over the life and death of Peter Ashe could not compare to the knowledge that James was alive. He was alive, and raging across the southern seas on Thomas’ behalf. Thomas knew only too well the kind of damage that a grieving, enraged James McGraw could inflict on anyone who crossed his path. Without Miranda, Thomas knew, James would have no intention of stopping until he too was dead, joining—so he would think—Thomas and Miranda in the afterlife. 

It had pained him to madness, every day for nearly a year to think of it. To think that they had been so close—merely a days’ journey to Charles Town, merely one word of Thomas’ survival from Peter before he died—and yet it had made no difference. 

Then came the day, early in spring as the residents of the plantation were all out to plant the summer’s crop, when he’d seen a solemn, black-clad figure walking toward him across the field looking as if he’d seen a ghost. 

Thomas ran a hand over his eyes, briefly, remembering those first moments. Nothing else in the world had existed in that instant—all the explanations, the stories, the sadness would come later. For those precious seconds as they held one another they were all there was. He wished it could have stayed that way forever. 

He looked up again, and found that Abigail was observing him, a look of concern on her face. 

“Are you alright, Uncle?” she asked, in her song-bird voice.

Thomas smiled, a motion which for him was more a function performed with his eyes than his mouth. “I’m alright. Just thinking.” 

Abigail nodded. “Are you upset with us? That we…have spoken of these things without you?”

Thomas sighed and slumped on his stool to lean against the whitewashed wall. “No, not upset. Simply reproaching myself for being willfully blind to what I did not want to see.” He looked at her intently, trying to decide how much to say of what he was thinking. “I should have seen that neither you nor James would be able to stay walled up in this cage for long. And I would have seen it if I hadn’t grown dull during these years I’ve spent alone here. I used to be much quicker than I am now. I am still catching up to the speed of thought one is used to in the outside world.” 

He paused, but decided to continue. “I worked hard early in my isolation, Abigail, to slow my mind down, as I found that the speed of my wit was nothing but a pain to me as long as I resided here. And since I thought that my residence would only end in my death, I never thought about how I might need to catch up again—and I especially never imagined that I would once again have companions like you and James who require me to be at my sharpest.” The last he said with an affectionate smile, and a little half bow to her, which made her laugh. 

Then she sobered, her face falling into its familiar serious lines. “But are you unhappy? At the thought of leaving?”

Thomas considered. “No. This place has brought me no joy, apart from you and James—and even that is marred by the fact that we are brought together by imprisonment. I have simply adapted too well to my surroundings, and must remember that I have no love for them, only resignation.”

“I think I understand.” She said, with an earnestness that made him smile again.

“You are wise far beyond your years my darling, so I’m certain you do. But I cannot say that I am not also worried. This endeavor…this place is not a prison like the Tower of London, but they will not let us leave it without considerable effort.” He looked hard at her. “You and James are similar in many ways, but I believe you have not yet had the chance to gain the same kind of…tolerance…that he has for violence. Do you know what may have to be done to leave here?”

Abigail jutted out her jaw, and Thomas raised his eyebrows at her expression. “I have not fought like you mean, Uncle, it’s true. But I am not as naïve as you may think me in matters of bloodshed. I have seen the way my Uncle James was forced to live and survive, and I do not think that even if every guard in this place were to stand against us that it could compare to the foes he has prevailed against. And I think that you underestimate his desire to keep the violence of our departure as minimal as he can…do you doubt that he will succeed?”

Thomas sighed. He often forgot the weeks that Abigail had spent among the pirates of Nassau, drugged and kidnapped by a man who was by all accounts crueler than James could ever think of being—cruel for sport and not necessity. Rescued in turn by Charles Vane, whose reputation was well-established. That Captain Flint had been the most reasonable and kindest pirate Abigail had been aboard a ship with wasn’t something to take lightly. 

“No, of course you are right. I do not doubt his cleverness and planning. I merely wish to protect you—both of you—from what the worst case scenario of this plot may bring.” 

Abigail bowed her head. “I know, uncle. But you can’t.” She looked up again and cocked her head. “The only thing you can do is join us as we continue to make our plans, and lend your own wisdom to us. For if you do not help us to form the smartest plan, I think you know that we will move forward with a foolish one. For we cannot stay still.” 

Thomas gave a startled laugh, and Abigail a one sided smile. 

“You’re right of course, my dear one. Your assessment is astute. I will try to lend whatever judiciousness I can.” 

“Good.” She said. 

They both turned back to their vegetables and their knives, attentive for a moment to their separate tasks. Thomas frowned over the potato in his hand, mulling over what would need to be done to make an escape. 

“The first problem, it seems,” he said after a few minutes silence, “is how to avail ourselves of any of the tools we will need. Weapons of any kind will be hard to come by, and dangerous to procure.” He looked idly at the knife in his hand. “It’s not as if we can just collect up kitchen knives and…” he trailed off at the small smile spreading across Abigail’s face. “What—you haven’t—?”

She flicked her eyes at the door to the kitchen, and shrugged. “It isn’t really so hard as you might think.” 

Thomas stared at her, nonplussed. “Do you mean—you’ve already done it? And no one noticed?” 

Abigail shrugged again, face pleased. 

“So if you were to take that knife in your hand with you when you leave this afternoon, they’d simply let you walk up to your room with it and not notice its absence?” he asked, incredulous. 

“Of course not,” Abigail said, primly. “If I were to secret away this knife today they would naturally blame you, and that wouldn’t be helpful at all. No, I’ll wait until I am sharing duties with Danvers, who will not know or care when he is blamed. And I will not mind his being blamed either.”

Thomas made a soft, derisive noise through his nose. Henry Danvers was a libertine, the bastard son of some parliamentarian who was generally in a laudanum stupor when he wasn’t terrorizing the female staff who worked on the plantation. He’d tried to ply his questionable charms with Abigail early in her first month in Savannah, and had earned a black eye and her undying hatred for his efforts. It would not be difficult to pin any missing items on him, and to have whatever staff discovered it believe he was the root of the trouble. He was not well-liked. 

Thomas looked at Abigail with respect. He thought he had finished underestimating her, but apparently she still had some surprises left for him. 

“At least, that is how I acquired the two knives that are now sitting in the back of my wardrobe drawer,” she remarked, mildly, eyes once again on her carrots. 

This time Thomas laughed outright. 

“Well. If the two of you continue like this, it seems I will simply await my marching orders and be ready when my two commanders tell me. I think I shall do my best simply to stay out of your very formidable way.” 

Abigail smiled. “Whatever you think best, Uncle Thomas.” 

***

Fate, as he saw it, caught up to Billy shortly after breakfast the next morning. 

If the black spot delivered to his hammock hadn’t been enough warning, he would have known it was coming by the way the ship sat still at the mouth of the river into Savannah well after the morning light touched the tops of the sails. They would only sit here, wasting valuable time, if the majority of the crew was largely occupied with something unrelated to the delivery of their cargo (and sole passenger). 

He sat in his usual place at the bow, looking languidly across the sandy spit of the coastline. Seagulls were in plenty here, mocking him as they swooped across the railings looking for anything edible that wasn’t pinned down. 

It was a pretty day. The sky was a clear, pure blue against the mirror of the sea. It wasn’t the worst last sight he could think of. 

Billy didn’t even turn his head when he heard the footsteps approaching, or when they stopped near him, hesitating at his show of indifference. There was a general shuffling and shifting among the group, a silent decision making process. At last, someone spoke. 

“Billy Bones?”

Now Billy did turn, but didn’t say anything. Just looked back, impassive. The man who had addressed him gave a nervous glance to the three who stood behind him. 

He cleared his throat. “You’re Billy Bones?”

Billy looked away, back out over the sea. They already knew the answer. They didn’t need him to play a part in whatever drama they had planned. 

“Oi,” the man said again, voice growing bolder with anger, “I asked you a question! I said are you Billy Bones?”

Billy nodded once, still not looking back at them. 

There was a quite murmured conference. Then the spokesman stepped forward. “Then that being the case, I have a message for you, by way of the late crew of The Walrus.”

Billy nodded again, and waited for the blow that would follow. He didn’t stand. He didn’t want anyone second guessing themselves, because he didn’t particularly want to put up a fight. 

He didn’t have to wait long. And of course, human nature being the inexorable force it is, he couldn’t help but resist. His hands would defend his life even if his heart would not. 

But it was still four against him, and even his strength was not a match. Finally, a heavy kick to his temple sent him into darkness. 

He remembered nothing more until the sharp, cold shock of hitting the water, and the bodiless sensation of being pulled down, down, down into the blue. 

***

James too would have been surprised to hear that Abigail’s schemes had already born as much fruit as to have procured a weapon for each of the three conspirators. 

For himself, he was taking his time, observing and strategizing the best method for their escape. 

Because it was harvest time, and the plantation was fed largely on the crops that the residents themselves grew, he’d been kept busy the past couple of weeks. He’d drawn field duty many more times than his fair share, if the jobs were actually divvyed in any sort of fair manner. But he was strong and everyone in charge of keeping the residents in line seemed to agree that keeping him tired was in all their interests. He didn’t really mind, he liked being outdoors. And anyway, he could make note of the comings and goings of the guards much more cautiously and unnoticed from out here.

The reason for his slow planning was twofold. First, that he knew Thomas would want him to do everything in his power to see that the necessity for bloodshed would be minimal. And he hoped for the same, though his reluctance to resort to it would not be as strong as Thomas’. The second was that it had been a long while since he’d had the luxury of careful planning for anything. He’d spent years chasing the Urca gold, plotting deliberately each step he would take to acquire it and each step he would take to put it to use. 

The moment that had gone out the window had started a domino series of days and weeks and months which were one haphazard and life-or-death gambit after the next, always trying just to stay ahead of the next sword. 

So it was pleasant, exercising all of his considerable strategic talent at this—weighing options, back-ups, and the advantages or disadvantages of this or that exit route. Even if (and he told himself he was being realistic, not arrogant when he thought this) his opposition in this case was severely outclassed by him. These guards were laymen from the colony, hired to keep women and dilettantes in their place. If he did no planning at all, but simply marched to the gates with the scythe he was currently using to thresh wheat, he was still pretty sure they’d have a hard time outmatching him. 

He sighed, setting the scythe down to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Maybe they knew, as well as John Silver had when he’d delivered him here, that they weren’t really what was keeping him in place. 

He hoped Thomas had meant what he’d said, about being willing and ready to start life anew somewhere. His spirit hadn’t been broken, precisely, by his imprisonment, but he was different in an indefinable, intangible way. Maybe the best word for it was acceptance. James had experienced some of that himself. At least, he was no longer interested in sacrificing himself to the cause of bringing England to her knees. The moment had passed, that window they’d had to do it properly, he didn’t care to lose himself to anything futile. And now he frankly just didn’t care what England did. England could go fuck herself. 

What he did want, and need, and was not resigned in the least to giving up was his own space, air to breathe freely with Thomas by his side. He wouldn’t even have minded this plantation, or threshing wheat, or mopping floors, or picking peaches. Turning his oar to a shovel and all that, as he’d once told Miranda. He just couldn’t ignore that he was doing it all under the watchful eye of jailers who could barely tie their own boots correctly. 

So he watched. He’d been watching for some time, but now with Thomas’ acknowledgement to assuage the guilt he felt over it, he did so with much greater purpose. He was fairly certain he now knew which guards worked on which part of the plantation, and when. He knew when Rowl, the one most likely to sleep during a shift, would be at the back gate through the orchard. He knew when Harris, the one with the bad right knee, would be on the perimeter. And he knew much more besides.

It wouldn’t be long now before all that knowing could turn into doing.

The sea was calling.


	4. The Center Does Not Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans go awry in escaping the plantation, Billy keeps on keeping on.

The plan James decided on was straightforward, even if the execution proved less so. To his credit, and no one’s surprise, it was not his fault when things went wrong. 

The idea was simple: to take their leave in the night with as little disturbance to the running of the plantation as possible. Hopefully, if they did this right, no one would notice them missing until well into the next morning. 

James had sighed, just a little, as he outlined his thoughts for Thomas and Abigail. He allowed himself just a moment to imagine what this scheme would have looked like if Captain Flint had been incarcerated here alone, left to his own devices with no gentle tempering. This plantation would be no more than a burnt out skeleton by dawn, he knew that much. 

But no, this plan was good. There was no reason to upset the balance here for the many residents of the place that had no desire to leave, and were entirely happy with their lot in life. It wasn’t the worst fate that could have befallen any of them, thanks to the relative kindness of their families. And if the rest of these people were content with that, he was content to live and let live. 

So his plan relied heavily upon stealth and the incompetence of the guards, particularly the ones who would be working a night watch. During the afternoon, James had Abigail distribute her small stock of tools between them. Each would be armed with a stolen kitchen knife—as a defensive precaution only, he assured them. 

They would set out at midnight. James and Thomas, whose room was on a second story at the back of the house, would drop down from their window into the orchard. Abigail, who was on a third story at the front, would slip down through the parlor and out the back door. Since Rowl would be on duty in the parlor, and therefore certainly asleep, she would have the easiest time of the three of them sneaking past without waking him if she was alone. Then she would rendezvous with them in the front corner of the orchard, where James would wait for the perimeter guard to pass in front of them so that he could incapacitate and bind him. After that, it was an easy climb over the stone wall in the back of the plantation and into the night. 

So far, things had gone exactly as they were supposed to. James and Thomas had climbed easily down out of their bedroom into the arms of a friendly tree (if James were interested in recommending how the staff might improve their security, keeping tree branches away from residents windows would be high on the list) and into the cool darkness of the orchard. 

They stood quietly, waiting for Abigail to join them. James wished they were wearing darker clothes, rather than the standard issue white linen shirts all the male residents wore. Though the moonlight would be a boon once they were making their way through the landscape outside of the plantation walls, it was a liability now. James shifted, restlessly thinking through the rest of what they needed to accomplish this night. Thomas was quiet and still by his side, subdued. This was all very new to him. James flicked his eyes toward the back door of the house. He hoped Abigail’s part of things was going to plan. Thomas had been reluctant when James suggested that she make her own way out to meet them, but Abigail had agreed that it made the most sense, and had not balked. 

Somewhere, nearby in the trees, a twig snapped. 

James froze, listening. He hadn’t seen the back door open—this was not Abigail. 

There shouldn’t have been anyone else out here in this part of the plantation now, he thought, running over the possibilities. The guards generally were divided into house and gate shifts, with two men roaming the perimeter. They didn’t patrol the inner gardens and orchard when the residents were abed. 

But apparently someone was tonight. 

James drew his knife from his belt, gesturing for Thomas to remain silent where he was, and stalked toward the soft sound of footsteps. 

He spotted the guard. It was the new man—Collins, he thought his name was. Damn his youth and enthusiasm, James thought. Most of the guards were entirely disinterested in the goings on of the plantation aside from what they needed to do to earn their weekly pay. Collins was of that young, cocky sort that Flint had encountered so often on ships, both among pirates and in the navy. He was sure of himself and eager to prove his strength against anyone, even those against whom it was no credit to him to have bested. Earlier this week James had seen him berate Cook for trying to re-enter the grounds without having her pass in hand, though of course everyone in the place knew exactly who she was. 

James moved toward him again, carefully keeping a row of trees between them, and calculated how much rope and cloth he could spare if he needed to truss up an extra body. 

There were only two trees behind them now. James waited as Collins took another step forward, and another, ready to charge—

“Wait!” cried a soft voice on the other side of Collins. 

Collins spun, musket raised in the direction of the voice. 

Thomas walked out from between the trees, hands raised. “Wait…your name is Collins isn’t it?”

James groaned internally. Oh Thomas, you bloody fool, he thought. 

“What are you doing out?” Collins demanded, not answering, “Don’t take another step!”

“I don’t mean you any harm,” Thomas said, placating, with a quick glance at the trees where James stood.

Collins saw the glance. “Who’s there?” he said, sharply, “come out right now, hands up!”

James took a deep breath and slid the knife into the back of his belt, then walked out, hands raised. 

Collins sneered. “What’re you two back gammoners about then? Ain’t you got a room in the house to keep you occupied? Got to bring your buggery out here? Over here, come on!” He gestured with the gun for James to stand next to Thomas. “Let’s get you lot back where you belong then shall we?”

James made a motion toward him, but Thomas stopped him with a hand before his muscles had even begun to engage. Collins jerked the gun, nervously. 

“Stop that! What’s this all about?”

Thomas glanced at James out of the corner of his eye. “Look here, Collins. This doesn’t need to get ugly. We’re all reasonable men aren’t we?” But his voice was nervous now, realizing that this may not go as he had hoped when he’d tried to hold James off. “Surely we can come to some agreement here…”

“Agreement about what? If you two don’t start marching toward that house this moment I’ll…”

James lunged, knife in hand quicker than thought. 

Thomas lunged after him, knocking him aside. 

And Collins lunged too, leading with his bayonet, which went straight through the large muscle of Thomas’ thigh, dropping him to the ground with a cry. 

He spun to guard himself, but he wasn’t a match for Flint. His throat was cut before he ever knew what had happened. 

James pushed the man aside, dropping next to Thomas. 

“Thomas, Thomas you idiot what were you thinking?” He pulled Thomas’ hands away from the wound, which was bleeding alarmingly fast. Thomas gasped when he saw it, face white. 

“I’m sorry my love,” he said, through clenched teeth, “I thought…I didn’t want you to have to kill anyone tonight.” He let out a noise that was half laugh, half sob. “I’m sorry. I’m a fool.” 

James pressed hard on the gash, trying his best to close it. “You certainly are that. A goodhearted fool though. Just promise me you’ll stay out of my way next time we have a gun pointed at us?”

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut tight and nodded. “I hope to take from that that you don’t think I will be dying…in the very near future?” 

“You will not be dying tonight,” James said, ferociously. He pulled a length of Abigail’s torn petticoat from his pocket. “You will, I’m afraid, be quite uncomfortable however.” He pressed the pad of it to Thomas’ wound, and wrapped another tight around it. “And there is no rest for the foolish. We have to get you up—I’ll help you to walk.” 

“Thomas! James!” came an agonized whisper from the darkness between the two nearest trees. Abigail emerged, looking horrified. “What happened?” 

“Change of plans.” James said, gruffly. “Can you help me with him?” 

Abigail nodded, moving forward to help prop Thomas into a standing position. Time for questions would be later. Between them they were able to haul Thomas to his feet, and if he leaned heavily on James he was able to use his unwounded right leg. James had a sudden flash—a different, wounded man, limping heavily alongside him, holding onto him for support. He banished it. Not the time. 

They made it to the back corner of the orchard, where they’d intended to await the passing of the perimeter guard. 

Unfortunately, they’d lost too many minutes, and the guard was not where he was supposed to be, but right on top of them at the edge of the trees. Moving silently was out of the question with James half-carrying Thomas, and so the man heard them at once, giving them no time to go still or retreat before he rushed between the trees to where they stood. 

James, hampered as he was by Thomas’ large frame was not fast enough to reach his knife and react to the sudden appearance of this new enemy. 

But Abigail was. 

All three men watched in fascination as the glinting arc of the paring knife came to a halt in the hollow of the man’s throat. He fell at once, mouth open in mild surprise as if someone had just told him a particularly intriguing piece of town gossip. 

Abigail turned to James and Thomas, face stunned. James gave a terse nod. 

“Well met.” 

Thomas groaned, though from the pain in his leg or at the sight of Abigail covered in a man’s blood, nobody could be sure. 

“Now is not the time to dwell on plans gone awry.” He said, lurching forward with Thomas, toward the stone wall. “Now is the time to flee, and make sure we are able to reflect at our leisure once we’re safely away.” 

Abigail swallowed hard and nodded, moving toward him to help with Thomas, whose face was ashen and eyes rolling. 

She did not look again at the body of the guard, which continued to bleed quietly into the cool red earth behind them. 

***

It came as a great shock when Billy realized he was alive. 

At first, the only sensation he was aware of was pain, and he was certain that he must be in hell. 

But the next sensation was that he was very, very cold. And that didn’t seem right, from what he remembered of his bible learning. If he were in hell he should be burning. 

The next thought that came to him was that he had awoken again in the surf on the treasure island. That he had never climbed up onto shore, never made a fire and a shelter, never caught the attention of that passing merchant vessel, never made it off the island at all. That instead he’d simply passed out again as the waves crashed around him, and all of those months since had just been the dream of a few more moments unconsciousness lying on the beach. 

But that didn’t make sense. The land ahead of him wasn’t the dense jungle of the island, but a broad, windswept coast of rolling dunes and grass. 

The memories came back to him at roughly the same speed as his awareness of his catalogue of injuries: he’d gotten off the island on a merchant ship, he had a painfully throbbing head; he’d been haunting drifting around the New World trying to convince himself that he could settle into somewhere new for six months, his lip was split and bleeding; he’d decided that he’d rather die at the hands of Flint than waste away in a Port Royal opium den, he seemed to have a few broken ribs; he’d booked passage with a rum-runner, his body was more bruise than not; his identity had been discovered and he’d received the black spot; the right side of his body seemed to have scraped against a shoal before tossing him back onto land. 

He lay for another moment half in and half out of the water, still in disbelief that the fall hadn’t killed him. He seemed to be immune to the normal dangers of falling overboard—this was his third unlikely survival of that occurrence. He wished he could stop testing it. 

It was late in the day, he realized, as the sun flared red behind the nearest sand dune. It had been several hours since his beating and forced removal from the ship. Soon it would be dark and getting even colder, and he should probably get out of the water. 

Or why not just stay put? Part of him argued. He’d always assumed that this journey would end in his death one way or another, why not here and now? 

Still he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just lie there and let the sea or hypothermia take him. Not when he was so close to his destination. Though there was no chance of Captain Flint giving him the forgiveness he sought, he could not die without at least looking him in the eye and asking for it. 

Painfully, laboriously, Billy hauled himself out of the waves. 

Survival was a hard habit to break.


	5. Pressing Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Abigail try to move as quickly as possible with a wounded Thomas, Billy makes his way inland.

It was harrowingly slow going on Thomas’ injured leg. 

James pushed them hard—after the excruciating process of getting Thomas up and over the wall—to put a little distance and confusion about their escape route between them and anyone who might follow before he allowed them to stop. 

By that time, Thomas had bled through the thin pad of material James had bound him up with, and was breathing shallowly, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool autumn air. 

“We should stop, re-dress that wound.” James said at last. 

Abigail released a long breath through her nose, and he shot a glance at her. She hadn’t said a word as they’d traveled, but her face was haggard, and after she helped Thomas to sit he saw her arms were shaking. This kind of physical exertion was not anything that had ever been required of her, and James felt a grim pride in her that she had done what was needed without any hint of her discomfort to this point. 

She wandered a little way away, arms hugged around herself, and sat. James let her be. 

He turned to Thomas, who had slumped where they’d set him, back against a tree, face drawn in pain. 

“I’m going to have to unwrap this,” James told him. Thomas nodded, eyes shut. “It’s probably going to hurt.” 

“James, my love,” Thomas said, weakly, but with a hint of a smile to his mouth, “I may be a fool but I am not stupid. Besides, it already hurts.”

“Not as much as it will,” James replied dourly.

“Ah, well. Heave ho then.” 

James reached out to brush Thomas’ white cheek with his hand, and Thomas raised his own to cover it there for a moment. 

“We don’t make things easy for each other, do we?” said James, softly. 

Thomas gave a wan smile. “You know I’ve always found easy to be a step too close to boring. Though this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I decided to add my own little complication to your clever planning.” 

“No,” James laughed, “I have no doubt that this did not play a factor in your vision of this evening’s events. We shall call this blade an instrument of reality, teaching you a harsh lesson about your idealism.” 

Thomas sighed, then winced as he shifted the wound a little too much. “And here I thought the last decade of my solitary confinement in the backwater of nowhere had taught me all I needed to know about where my lofty ideals would land me.” 

“No, it’s a lesson you’ll never learn fully, for if you did, you would cease to be Thomas Hamilton. And although I will kill you myself if you ever scare me like this again, I do love you for it.” 

James leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss across Thomas’ lips. He drew back, but Thomas reached up and pulled him in closer, deepening the kiss and twining his hand in James’ red hair. For a moment James lost himself in the taste of Thomas mouth and the feeling of his hand, firm but gentle cradling his neck. Then Thomas broke away. James raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I just wanted to remind myself that I love you very deeply, before you do whatever it is that you are about to do which might tempt me to forget for a moment.” Thomas said, with a half smile, half grimace. 

“Well then.” Said James. 

He turned to the bloodstained bandage on Thomas’ leg, gingerly untying and unwinding the now grimy strips of fabric. 

Thomas only cried out once, when James peeled the pad off the wound. Beneath, James was glad to see at least that the bleeding had subsided, now only a sluggish trickle rather than a liquid flow. He wiped around it with the spare fabric from his pocket, trying to assess the damage. 

At the very least, it hadn’t gotten anywhere near to Thomas’ femoral artery, which was a blessing. Of course, if it had, Thomas wouldn’t have made it this far—he’d probably have bled to death in a matter of minutes back in the orchard. Still, being certain it wasn’t in danger was reassuring. 

It had, however, sliced through a good portion of the large muscle of Thomas’ thigh. It was going to be some time before Thomas would walk comfortably on it again, if he didn’t develop a lifelong limp from it. And that was all assuming that they could keep it from going bad. Which was going to be more difficult the longer it took them to get to the shore and a ship out of the colonies. 

“Will he be alright?” 

James turned, and found that Abigail had crept up beside him while he worked. He nodded. 

“If we can keep it from reopening, and if we can get it cleanly bandaged against infection.”

“Do you still have the rest of my petticoat?” Abigail asked, frowning down at the wound. Thomas was quiet—in fact, James realized, Thomas had passed out. 

James shook his head. “Used it all up on the first bandage. We’ll have to figure out something else, unless you have more?”

Abigail shook her head. “That was all that was left of it.” She paused. “But I think I may have another solution. Wait a moment.” 

James watched, frowning, as Abigail moved off into the trees. Unless she had some sort of herblore that he was unaware of, he couldn’t fathom what solution she had hidden out in the woods. He shrugged. Though he had grown exceedingly fond of her, the girl was still a bit of a mystery to him. Every time he thought he’d figured her out by comparison to the women he’d know, she contradicted it in some way. When he thought she was like Miranda, or like Madi, or like Eleanor. But she wasn’t like any of them really, she was something entirely her own. The thought of the three of them made his heart twinge for a moment. Two of them were dead, arguably by his doing, one might wish she were—he knew too well the heartbreak that Madi would have felt when their endeavor was forced to an end. He sighed. 

Then Abigail re-emerged from the trees, redirecting his thoughts as he blinked at her. She’d discarded her gown, now draped over her arm, in favor of a pair of fawn colored breeches, and a white linen shirt like the one he wore, under a practical leather vest. She’d tied her hair back, too, with a scrap of white material. On her feet were a pair of boots—had she been wearing those under her dress?—and there was a belt around her waist, on which hung the pouch containing her fire kit and other things stolen from the house. 

She tossed her gown to the ground next to James, and crouched on the other side of Thomas. 

“That ought to bandage him properly, and with a bit to spare for tomorrow.” She said, her lilting voice giving no indication that she had just done anything noteworthy. 

“So we’re just going to bypass how you came by this ensemble then?” 

She shrugged. “I took them from the laundry. I didn’t think I’d want to be traipsing through the wilderness dragged down by that thing.” She gestured to the flowered gown with a look of distaste. “I was planning on changing in the orchard, before…before things became complicated.” 

“And the boots? You didn’t get those in the laundry.” 

“Danvers won’t miss them.” 

James laughed. “I wouldn’t count on that.” 

“Danvers deserves to miss them then. Either way you like it.” 

“So you want me to tear up this gown then, use it to sop up blood?”

“It’s already half covered in the stuff, so I don’t see why a little more should matter.” She reasoned. 

James looked at her sharply, trying to read her face. “He would have killed one or all of us, you know. That guard. He had to be dealt with.” 

She looked back at him, defiant. “I know. I am not sorry I did it.” 

“Good. Though I am sorry you needed to.” 

She cocked her head, thinking. “Yes. I am not sorry I did it, but I suppose it is not untrue to say I am sorry it needed to be done. I did not savor killing him, and I think the memory of it will not leave me soon.” 

He nodded. For a moment he could again see the knife in her fist, the moonlight on the blade glinting before she’d brought it crashing down in the man’s neck, and he imagined she was probably picturing the same thing—with the added feeling of knife parting skin. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, in that case this gown will do well for our purposes. Shall we?” 

In answer, she pulled the knife from her belt, reaching for a corner of the voluminous skirt and ripping a strip off of it with enthusiasm. Without comment, James followed suit. 

Soon, they had reduced the muslin to a heap of bandaging, a good deal of which went straight onto Thomas’ leg. The rest was bundled to keep clean for future dressing. When everything was secure as they could make it, they roused Thomas, hoisting him between them, and moving forward again toward the coast. 

***

Billy lurched forward, breath painful against his fractured ribcage. 

He’d awoken again on the beach in the full light of morning, having slept longer than he’d intended. Or at least, having remained unconscious longer than he’d meant to. Sleep seemed to imply some sort of rest or intention was involved, when really he’d simply blacked out again not long after he’d hauled himself from the water and into the lee of a friendly sand dune. 

Now he stumbled blindly inland. 

He’d had a rough plan for his arrival in Savannah, and an idea of where to begin looking for the plantation where rumor had reached him was the new home of Captain Flint. At least, he’d had an idea of where to start asking around, and what kind of palms he might begin to grease to find out if the place really existed. He refused to consider seriously the possibility—even probability—that Captain Flint was in fact lying in a shallow grave somewhere on that rotten island, dead at the hands of John Silver. It seemed like the kind of thing Silver would do, to spread the rumor of his own magnanimity and keep the legend of Flint alive just to make himself feel better. But the thought had made Billy feel better too, given him purpose and direction when he’d had none, and he needed it to be true. 

Now he was driven forward solely by that need. All of his planning and logic was out the window. He was dehydrated, probably concussed, and if he stopped for a moment would realize he didn’t even know what part of the coast he’d landed on, much less which direction Savannah was. But he didn’t stop, because even if he did he had no way to amend the situation. So he pointed himself inland, shambling like a man already dead, toward the making of his own grave. 

But Billy’s luck was better than he ever could have guessed, if luck it could be called. 

He did not know that he had washed up very near, as the crow flies, to the prison plantation. Even more extraordinarily, he did not know, when he noticed an odd, hunched figure on the horizon, that fate had set him precisely in the path of the quarry he sought. 

It took him some time to realize that the shape was even moving. His vision was swimming and hazy with fatigue and lack of water. It wasn’t the first vague mirage that had appeared and disappeared from his cloudy vision that morning. Eventually, however, he realized that whatever the strange shape was, it wasn’t vanishing like the other inventions of his eyes. It was actually getting nearer, and coming into sharper focus. 

He blinked, squinting at the creature—it was a lopsided, irregular thing that staggered toward him. He thought for a moment that he should move from its path, hide himself, do something to make himself less of an obvious target for whatever it was. But the thought flitted away from him almost as soon as it had come. He had no energy left for self-preservation, or for anything other than plunging ahead for as long as his weary body would carry him. 

So he continued on toward the thing. And when he realized what it was coming toward him his legs finally gave up, the shock of recognition stealing the last bit of determination he had. 

Because what he saw was impossible, and the only explanation was that he was already dead, or dying, for he was seeing ghosts. And since they were quite clearly coming for him, he figured that he might as well lie down and await them.


	6. A Crossroads Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James, Thomas, and Abigail's path finally intersects with Billy Bones'.

Oddly enough, it was Thomas who first noticed the tall figure stumbling toward them. 

Probably it was because his two companions, who were fit and whole, had spent the past few hours basically carrying him and therefore had lost the edge they’d both had earlier in the night. 

“Do you…do you see that?” he asked, groggily. 

Abigail’s head was down, eyes focused on her feet. One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, she chanted to herself. 

James’ eyes were forward, but unseeing. He blinked. 

“See what?” 

Thomas frowned, the figure seemed to have collapsed out of sight the moment he’d been certain enough to say something. 

“I could swear I saw someone…just over the rise, coming toward us…” 

James’ eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. “I don’t see anyone.” He paused. “Which doesn’t mean that there wasn’t someone there.” He sighed. “No use stopping, we’ll have to meet and deal with them as we are able.” He looked to his right, at Thomas’ grey visage and rust stained leg, and at Abigail’s tight-lipped expression above her boy’s clothes. They didn’t look quite as respectable as he’d hoped to when they arrived to attain passage aboard a ship. They looked like no-good pirates, fresh out of a fight. Actually, he thought with dark humor, he looked the least disreputable of the lot at the moment. 

It wasn’t long before they overtook the figure that Thomas had spotted, and James saw with misgiving that the man hadn’t stopped to rest or hidden off the road, but rather fallen headlong in the middle of the light track they were following. He was out of place—maybe even more than they were, which James disliked. The last thing they needed was more trouble. 

And there was something…familiar. James’ suspicion grew as they hobbled toward him—the long legs, the shape of the hand thrown forward under his head, and the curve of a boyish cheek…

_Billy Bones. It couldn’t be._

“Stop!” he said sharply to Abigail and Thomas, disengaging his shoulder from Thomas’ arm so quickly that the other two staggered sideways as Abigail struggled under his full weight, before Thomas managed to get his good leg under him to help right them. 

James strode to the prone figure, looking like a cat approaching a trapped mouse. He nudged the body with his boot, but the figure didn’t stir. He hooked a boot under one broad shoulder, rolling him over roughly. 

It was Billy. He could see his face clearly now. He even looked more or less like the last time Flint had seen him—bruised and bloody. Billy still hadn’t woken, merely groaned as James shoved him onto his back. 

“What the fuck?” James snarled, dropping to a defensive crouch next to the body, knife at the ready in his hand. “What the fuck are you doing here Billy?” He grabbed him by the chin, shaking his head. Billy grimaced but didn’t open his eyes. 

“You know what?” Flint said, giving him a short slap, and putting his knife to the bare, white throat, “I don’t actually fucking care.” 

***

_“His name is Billy, in case you were wondering.”_

Abigail was having trouble processing the story that her eyes were telling her alongside the memory that face was conjuring. She was so tired, her body at the end of its strength, her mind moving as if it had to wade through molasses to reach each thought. 

But then she saw the knife in James’ hand, at the throat of the man lying unconscious on the ground, and she had one clear thought: she was not ready to see another man’s throat slit this day. 

“Stop! Uncle!” Abigail flung herself at James, leaving Thomas to stagger on his one leg now without any support, and fall with a thump to the side of the path giving a pathetic _ooph_ as he landed. 

Abigail grabbed James’ wrist, but was nowhere near strong enough to remove his hand from where the knife blade dimpled Billy’s throat. 

“Abigail,” James growled, warningly. 

“Uncle! This is Billy, one of your men! What threat is he?” 

James snarled, his upper lip curling in anger over his bared teeth. “I know it’s Billy, which is how I know he’s the greatest of threats. There is only one possible reason for him to be on these shores, and that is that he isn’t done yet trying to kill me.” 

Abigail looked between Billy’s pained face and James’ determined one, confused, trying to catch up. Hadn’t James told her once that this was a good man? But things must have changed since then…she shook her head. 

“He can’t possibly kill you now Uncle, look at him! He isn’t even conscious!” She pulled her hand away from James’ wrist, standing up to look down at him, her eyes ablaze. “And if you are going to slit the throat of a former friend as he lies defenseless—no matter his crimes—” she paused, and he could hear the suppressed fury in her voice, “then you simply are not the man I thought I had come to know.” 

They glared at one another for a tense moment, stubborn dark eyes meeting stubborn light ones. 

Then James relented with a frustrated noise, releasing the knife from Billy’s throat. “You don’t know what you are talking about Abigail. This man is not the one that you remember.” 

She struck out her chin, and folded her arms over her chest. “I believe you Uncle. But be that as it may, I will not watch you kill a helpless man. And I believe he deserves the chance to give a different reason for his presence here than the one you suggest. To answer for himself at least before you pass your judgement.” 

“He may be a great danger to us.” 

“And he may not—look at him,” she said, gazing down at his face, and the way he curled around his broken ribs, “he is not well James. I do not think he could accomplish an assassination attempt even if that were his intended aim.” She softened, looking at James. “At least wait until he wakes. Decide then if the threat is too great to remain. You know it is the right thing.” 

James lifted a hand, rubbing his forehead wearily. “Alright,” he said at last. “But know I do this for your sake, and not in the least for his, for he has done nothing that would cause me to stay my hand.” 

“Well, I will make myself contented then that you do as I ask. Thank you Uncle.” 

James snorted. Here he was reminded once again that he was no longer Captain Flint, but someone much softer. He wasn’t sure if he approved of the change. It seemed quite possible that it was going to get them killed, all for his desire to maintain the good opinion of a girl who simply lacked the sense to know any better. 

“Bah.” He said. But he rose, moving away from Billy. 

“I hate to divert anyone’s attention from something pressing,” came Thomas’ voice from where he had sprawled on the ground. “But I’m terribly afraid I have started to bleed again.” 

James rolled his eyes at Abigail, though it wasn’t her fault that any of this had gone wrong. 

“I’ll tend Thomas. You—” he said, jerking his head at Billy’s prone form, “had better try to get him to drink some water, else the sun will settle this argument by doing what I may not.” 

Then he turned his back on Billy (though he listened carefully for any movement) certain the man was in no shape to renew the sentiments he had expressed the last time the two had met. 

Abigail unfolded her arms, but stood still for a moment, hesitating. 

Haltingly, she knelt down at Billy’s head, drawing her water flask slowly from her pack. 

She undid the top, and poured a small stream of the water onto Billy’s upturned face. He spluttered, but didn’t come around or let any of the liquid down his throat. 

“You’ll have to tilt his head back,” James commented, not turning from Thomas leg, which he was re-bandaging with efficiency. “Lift him up under the shoulders so that gravity helps him swallow it.” 

Abigail bit her lip. 

There was no help for it—James was right, Billy’s skin was cold and clammy, and he needed water. Barring his waking up right this moment and drinking it himself, she’d have to figure out how to help him. 

She sank to the ground, cross-legged, situating herself with the water bottle propped up in the sand next to her. She leaned forward, sliding her hands as delicately as she could under Billy’s shoulders. But Abigail soon realized delicacy was a futile effort, as he was entirely too large to be moved easily by her. She glanced over at James, who was doggedly not looking her direction. No help there, she was sure. She bunched her muscles—ones that were accustomed only to the tasks of needlework, vegetable chopping, and playing her pianoforte, and which had been sorely tried this night—and heaved the best she could. Billy moved only an inch or two toward her, and his face crumpled again in pain. It took three more tries before she was able to haul his head and some of his shoulders into her lap, so that she could tilt his neck upward. 

Abigail faltered looking down at his face, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other halfway to the water flask. 

She would be lying if she were to say that this was not a face that she had thought about long after she’d first seen it. 

Those few moments on the ship which was to take her home had made a mark on her like few others had. There had been something about this man—something golden and good about him that had stuck in her mind. 

She cringed a little bit, thinking of the things she had written about him in her journal—assuming the whole thing would be burned the second she was off the ship, and that no one would think twice about it. She’d learned later from James that it hadn’t been burned at all, but brought to his trial to be used as evidence in his favor. He’d thanked her at the time, for the things she had said about him. But she didn’t know how much of it had been read aloud, if they read the things not related to Flint along with the rest. Had they recited and parsed the girlish infatuation with which she’d viewed Billy then? Would the tale of it have made its way back to him? The thought made her squirm. 

She shot another look at James and Thomas, but they were still wrapped up in one another and paying her no attention, and so she let herself look over Billy’s face for a moment, seeing if she could read the changes James had alluded to written there. 

He was more battered than when she had last seen him. His lip was only beginning to heal from a nasty split, making his already full mouth look even more bee-stung than normal. His long, golden lashes fluttered against his cheek, and she knew that the eyes beneath them would still be a shocking dark blue. Up close, he had a sprinkle of freckles across his long nose, a souvenir of many days in the sun. And he did look…older, maybe. Sadder. There were lines around his mouth she did not think had been there before, and between his eyebrows too. She thought there might even be a touch of new silver at his temples—just a dash, but a hint of more to come one day. 

Billy stirred slightly, with a soft noise in his throat, and Abigail started guiltily. 

She snatched up her water bottle, clearing her own throat. She tried to regain a little of her composure, to be a calm and detached nurse. She tilted his head back a little further so that his lips parted, and brought the flask gently to them. 

This time she was much more successful in the endeavor, and Billy’s body seemed naturally to want to help her in it, swallowing easily as she tipped the cool water into his mouth.

At last he sighed, his head rolling to one side, the creased look of pain now almost entirely smoothed away, and his body seemed to relax. Abigail tried to ease herself out from underneath him, but he frowned in his sleep and made a small noise that froze her in place. Then she settled back down, shifting his head so that it rested more comfortably on her lap. Just a considerate, collected nurse, she thought to herself. Just getting him back on his feet. 

“You’ll want to give him some more of that, as soon as he’s able to drink it. Seems like we’ll have to wait here for a while since I’m fairly certain you won’t be able to carry him,” James remarked, a sardonic note in his voice. 

Abigail’s head whipped around, and she saw that James and Thomas were now sitting side by side on a patch of grass, both watching her. She blushed deeply, and hoped that the glare of the sun hid it, ducking her head. 

James was glowering, Thomas giving her one of his crinkly-eyed sympathetic smiles. 

She didn’t know which was worse.


	7. To the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy explains why he is here, the band makes their way to the shore.

Billy came around with much more clarity than he’d had since he went overboard. As a result, he did not think that he was already dead when he opened his eyes—even though they opened on what could certainly have been the face of an angel leaning over him. 

The face was upside down, so it took his tired brain a moment longer than normal to take in the features in reverse—pale throat, a softly cleft chin, serious dark eyes, a troubled brow. A wave of rich brown hair hung over one shoulder. He knew that face—or did he? He felt that he had imagined it enough times that it made sense he would think he was seeing it now, in what was probably dehydrated delirium. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. She was still there. And she was still Abigail Ashe, however improbably. 

“Uncle,” she said, looking over her shoulder out of Billy’s eyeline. “I think he’s waking up!” 

“About damn time,” grumbled an even more familiar voice, jolting Billy out of his pleasantly confused musings. He tried to bolt upright, but found that his body was only half able to comply. Instead, he jerked to one side, and immediately fell back in an agony as he remembered his broken ribs. 

“Don’t!” Abigail said, voice laced with concern as she pressed down on his shoulder to hold him steady. His head was in her lap, he realized with mild discomfort. How had that happened? Last he remembered was seeing…

He turned his head as gingerly as he was able. There he was—Flint. The man stood a ways removed, arms folded and one hip cocked, observing Billy. Another man sat on the ground in a pool of shade next to him, a man Billy didn’t recognize, but could only be Thomas Hamilton. When whispers had reached Billy that Flint was alive and living under lock and key in Savannah, he had gone to great lengths to find out why. And he hadn’t really been able to believe the reason given to him until now. Seeing the way Flint stood protectively close to him, the way the man looked up at him with clear affection—this could be none other than Flint’s lover, the man who had inspired his crusade against England and all the world. 

Flint was looking down at Billy with a sardonic expression, his lip curling over his teeth in a way Billy remembered all too well. 

“Had a nice rest, have you?” Flint asked, acidly. 

Billy shook his head, trying desperately to clear it—the last thing he had wanted was to confront Flint without all his wits about him. 

“I—I came to find you,” he rasped, dismayed to find his voice nearly non-existent. 

Flint sneered. “Allow me to congratulate you on your success then. Now you can return to whatever viper pit you emerged from before Abigail’s stay on my hand reaches its end.” 

Billy glanced up at Abigail again, but her eyes were on Flint—her chin set in defiance. He felt another wave of embarrassment at his feebleness. He couldn’t address his plea for absolution to Flint while lying helpless and propped up by another person. He tried again to sit, but his abdominal muscles refused to cooperate. 

“Please…” he grated. 

Abigail cocked her head, face uncertain, then realized what he was trying to do. She slid her hands under his shoulders, and helped to heave him into a sitting position. He was distressed at how little he was able to do under his own power. As soon as he was sitting, Abigail scrambled up from where she’d been, darting to stand on the other side of Thomas Hamilton. She must have been stuck there caring for him, he thought miserably. 

He shuffled himself around as he could, drawing his knees up and resting his hands on them, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he looked up into Flint’s face. 

“I’ve come—I came to ask you…to seek your forgiveness.”

Flint gave an odd, choked sound that was half laugh and half snarl. “Forgiveness!” He made a barely suppressed motion with his right hand toward Billy, which he saw held a short knife. 

“Uncle!”

“James!”

The other two voices exclaimed at the same time, and Flint cast an annoyed look their direction. 

“Forgiveness,” he said again, more subdued, but with no less bile. 

Billy nodded. “I did things…in the course of opposing you…which even God himself will likely not forgive.” The words came slowly, painfully from his parched throat. “But I must ask for absolution, even if it costs my life.”

“This is a severe change of heart from the last time we…spoke.” Said Flint. 

Billy bowed his head. “I can’t answer for the crimes I committed then. I wish I could say that madness drove me to it. But it wasn’t madness.” He looked up again, meeting Flint’s eyes clearly. “It was just my hatred for you. Hatred that shut out anything else. Which is you’re the one who I needed to find—to say just that I am sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” Flint asked, incredulous. He cast another look toward Abigail and Thomas, this time in consternation. Billy spared himself a brief glance toward them as well, and saw that Abigail was frowning, brows drawn together as she glared at the ground, and Hamilton was engaging in some silent exchange with Flint, eyebrows high. 

Flint sighed, exasperated, and broke the eye contact with Hamilton first. 

“I don’t know what to say to you Billy. I think you know I can’t give you what you’re looking for. I don’t know whether I think it more delusional or outright stupid that you came to me at all.”

Billy nodded. “I expected that. And worse besides.” 

“Yes, you’re lucky to be championed by two people more magnanimous than myself. It’s probably good for your case that you look like such a pathetic sot, you inspire their misplaced sympathy.” 

Billy couldn’t help but frown slightly, looking at the two out of the corner of his eye. The Flint he knew would not have let his hand be staid by anyone if he was really set on a thing. That he apparently now had two such people for whom he was willing to put down his weapon was perplexing. What power did they have over him? It changed the equation he’d been planning on since he first decided to undertake this insane journey. What on earth came next if it wasn’t Flint killing him?

“What…what are you going to do with me?” he asked. 

“Do with you?” repeated Flint. 

“I expected that finding you would end with me dead. I didn’t really plan on anything after that.”

Flint snorted. “And if I’d offered you my full and free forgiveness when you asked for it?” 

Billy cocked his head. “I honestly didn’t consider it.” 

“Well then that’s the smartest thing you’ve said since I’ve known you.” 

Flint sighed, turning back to his companions. 

“Well?” he asked, “what _are_ we going to do with him? I’m assuming neither of you would be pleased with the idea of trussing him up and leaving him to be taken care of by the sun…”

They both glared at him, wordlessly, and he relented. “Right. So that means coming with us. God help us. God help _me_.” 

“You,” he addressed to Billy, “can you promise me that you will do as you are told, make no move against me or against either of these two, and generally behave—as you have never seemed to be able to do before now?”

“And if I do promise?”

“I won’t kill you. Which is coincidentally what I’ll do if you don’t promise. So your choices are easy. And remember, I barely need a reason to kill you as it is, so I’ll be happy to have one more and be looking for it in every step you walk with us—so take one out of line…” he trailed off, brandishing the knife. Billy understood.

“I don’t want to hurt you. Any of you. I’ll do what you say.” 

“That,” said Flint, “would certainly be a first.”

***

It took a little while longer for the now-foursome to get to its feet and arrange itself to be able to continue on toward the coast and finding a ship. 

Billy wasn’t in good shape, and Abigail was largely unsuited to help him more than giving him a hand to climb to his feet. James pointedly ignored him, tending to Thomas who also moved a bit slower without a helper under both arms to keep him off his injured leg. 

His other three companions would have been contented to move at a more manageable pace, but James’ increasing concern for their situation wouldn’t allow him to let them slow. The appearance of Billy Bones was concerning in itself, because he still didn’t believe at all that he’d simply sought him out to say “sorry,” as that was absurd. But it added an element to their travel that complicated things on their own, even without any regard to his potential nefarious purposes. Booking passage for four people rather than three, for one thing, and for another he added an even more disheveled air to their combined appearance. It was going to make things harder. 

So James pushed them forward as quickly as he was able. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Thomas’ leg untended for any longer than absolutely necessary. His thoughts revolved on the issue of finding a ship that would take on four very suspicious looking passengers. In his original plan, they’d looked like two reputable gentlemen and a lady, and he’d thought he could persuade a captain to take them on as passengers with only a small sum at the beginning of the journey and promise of complete payment when they arrived. He had only a little coin, but access to much more in Nassau. Now though, he doubted anyone would take that risk on them. So he worried through option after option, discarding plans and unlikely possibilities almost as soon as they occurred. 

“What’s troubling you?” Thomas asked, startling James’ face out of its scrunched lines of concern. “Is it Billy?” he added, in a low voice. 

James shook his head with a small scoffing noise. “No, I’ve no extra attention to devote to him at the moment.” He paused, not sure how much to burden Thomas with his worries. “It’s getting a ship…I’d thought to negotiate passage for us with the small coin I have, but now I don’t think it will be so easy…I’m afraid we will have a hard time…”

“Ah,” said Thomas, and to James’ surprise his face relaxed into a smile as they limped forward. “For once, my love, I think I may have had the foresight to do something useful. Look in my pack.” 

They stopped walking for a moment, forcing Abigail and Billy to halt awkwardly behind them. James unhooked a small fabric pouch that he had not noticed before from Thomas’ belt, tipping its contents into his palm. A smile spread across his face. 

“Why Thomas, you’ve gone and done something sly.” He reached over with the hand holding the empty pouch, and tilted Thomas’ face down by the chin to give him a light, swift kiss. He saw Billy shift out of the corner of his eye, but ignored him. 

“Where did you get this?” James asked, holding out the mix of gold and silver coins which sat heavily in his hand, glinting in the sun. It was a considerable amount of money. Thomas gave a pleased, somewhat bashful grin. 

“You and Abigail did such careful planning, I felt rather useless in comparison. So I thought I’d better try to do something helpful, bring a bit of a dowry as it were…”

James chuckled. “I have to say I’m impressed. How did you come by it?” 

“I stole it from Oglethorpe’s desk yesterday afternoon. I was happy to find I could still use my lock picking skills, I haven’t had need since I was a boy, sneaking books my father deemed inappropriate for young eyes out of a locked cabinet in our library.”

“You couldn’t have chosen anything we needed more,” James said, pressing a hand to his shoulder, “and you have more than proven your place in our little band of criminals.” This last he said with a wink, and Thomas brushed it away with a laugh, though James could tell he was actually quite pleased. 

“Will it be enough to procure passage, Uncle?” asked Abigail, coming up by his elbow. Billy hovered several feet away, eyes drifting to the horizon over their shoulders. 

“More than enough,” said James, confident, “even looking as untrustworthy as we do.” 

“Good,” came Billy’s voice, startling all three. “Because unless I am imagining things, we’ll be at the coast just over that next rise.” 

***

He wasn’t wrong. 

Within the hour, they were in sight of the ocean, and by the time another had passed they were walking up the sandy shore toward a small harbor at the mouth of the channel where it seemed most likely that they could hail a boat sailing out of the colonies. 

Abigail didn’t pay much attention to the whispered conference between James and Thomas regarding the finding of a ship. She knew that between the two of them they’d have it perfectly well sorted. As eager as she’d been to help in the planning of their escape back at the plantation, she was well aware that now—in the real world—she was quite out of her depth. She tried not to let it intimidate her. 

And besides that, she was weary down to her very bones. She’d been wide awake (and walking) for the better part of the past twenty-four hours with no rest and minimal sustenance. She could feel that her fever was creeping back in, but had little thought to spare for it alongside the other aches and pains that were marching a spirited parade through her body. 

But she refused to be the one of the group who had to force them to stop for rest. Especially when two of the men were seriously injured, and seemed able to continue in spite of their injuries. So each time she thought she might not be able to continue a moment longer, she forced herself to repeat a catalogue of all the terrible things that she knew any of these three had endured. Jailed, beaten, shot, whipped, stabbed, nearly drowned. Oh and made to stand trial for murder. Watching Miranda die. Rifle butt to the head. Trying to remember them all and add them to her mental list distracted her long enough that by the time she ran out she was able to keep her feet walking for a few more minutes. 

Her eyes were fixed on her boots, the effort to continue moving reduced to her having to physically push each one forward, again and again and again, so she didn’t notice immediately when James and Thomas came to a halt in front of her until she almost walked into them. 

James helped to ease Thomas into sitting on a rock just alongside their path, bad leg stretched out straight. “Wait here. I’ll be back fairly shortly, if all goes well.” 

Abigail looked up as he walked away, confused. Then she realized that at some point when her eyes had been focused on the ground, they’d come to the very edge of the channel. Ranged out ahead of them along the shore were a few different camps in varying states of permanency. Crews of the ships whose shipping route took them along this way, who stopped here regularly before moving in and out between the inland channel and the open sea. Now, approaching sunset, she could make out several varying sized vessels anchored off the coast. That was good, she thought muddily, somebody must be willing to take them. Which meant she could sit down…sit down and never stand up again…

Time swam past her in strange whirls and eddies from there. Before she had time to blink, James had returned. And then again she closed her eyes and seemingly moments later found the four of them sitting in a small launch, pointed toward one of the anchored ships. 

She was afraid for a moment that her body would betray her at the last, and that she would have to be humiliatingly carried aboard, leaden arms unable to negotiate the rope ladder. But then she thought of the last time she’d been ferried on and off of a ship like this, lying drugged in a makeshift hammock and hoisted by unfriendly, leering faces, and she mustered a last reserve of will she didn’t know she had to haul herself aboard. Abigail didn’t even pause to think that Thomas must have been helped aboard somehow with his leg, so it wouldn’t have been that humiliating for her to take the option as well. She focused all her mental energy on climbing.

She didn’t hear anything that passed between James or Thomas and the sailors, but allowed herself to be shuttled into a small, low space hung with hammocks. 

Uncle James had to lift her into one, as she swayed on her feet before it, eyes blurring with fatigue. But that wasn’t so bad, she thought to herself just before sleep dragged her under, she’d made it all the way there. 

Abigail didn’t feel James’ light kiss on her forehead or the scratchy blanket he dragged over her, readjusting her heavy boots so that she lay more comfortably in the swinging canvas. 

She didn’t feel Billy’s gaze on her either, half-agony, half-confusion, resting on her face for a long moment before he moved into his own hammock and shut his eyes. 

She wouldn’t have known what to make of it if she had.


	8. Into Port Boston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Billy go ashore to resupply, Billy has a conversation with Thomas

The ship they were on was a mid-sized rum runner out of Port Royal called The _Castlemaine_. Rum runners weren’t pirates, but they weren’t legitimate men either which was what had appealed to James about the ship. He’d hoped it would prevent them from being too interested in asking questions about their odd passengers, but also prevent anyone from recognizing him or Billy. 

Having just emptied its cargo of rum to the southern colonies, the ship’s schedule was to reload with goods in Boston before returning to Port Royal. Once there, it should be easy enough to find a vessel to take them on to Nassau. James hoped that the two stops would also provide Billy ample opportunity to realize the folly of staying with them, and to give him an easy chance to go his own way and leave them alone. 

Thanks to the exhaustion of the first leg of their journey, all four travelers slept through the night and well into the next day, with the result that the ship’s lookout was calling out Boston in his sightglass by the time any of them were ready to stir from the cabin. 

Though James worried about the risk of going ashore in Boston—worried that he may be recognized there, or otherwise find some sort of trouble—he knew he’d have to risk it when the _Castlemain_ docked, in order to purchase the things they would need before the end of the journey. Poultice and clean bandaging for Thomas’ leg was first and foremost in his mind, but he thought he probably also ought to buy each of them a set of clean clothes. Not only were the ones they wore in fairly dire condition, they were also still the items provided for them on the plantation, and he itched to have that place well and totally behind him. 

As much as he disliked the idea of spending any more time than was strictly necessary with Billy Bones, in the end he was more reticent to leave him alone with Thomas and Abigail where he couldn’t keep an eye on him. So that afternoon when the crew lowered the gangplank and called shore leave for the men entitled, he informed Billy that he would be accompanying James ashore. “To carry bags,” he added, in a tone that invited no argument. Accordingly, Billy did not argue. 

In fact, James realized as he walked down the long pier into the Boston dock market, Billy’s subdued silence was in itself a little disconcerting. Since the moment he realized who that long, lanky figure was lying in their path he had been preparing himself for the confrontation. 

And still it did not come. He refused to believe that Billy could be as defeated as he seemed. But so far the man had yet to do anything to show a spirit to the contrary.

“You know what I’ve never understood?” Flint asked Billy at last, conversationally, as they picked their way through the stalls of the market’s outer edge. 

“What?” Billy asked, without inflection. 

“I’ve never been able to figure out why exactly it was you did hate me. If it had been about Hal—Mr. Gates—I would have understood. But we both know it started long before that.” 

Billy cocked his head slightly, considering, but didn’t look at James. His face was far away. 

“S’pose you’re right.” 

“So? Do you even know why it was? It seems to me that a man’s hatred has to run pretty fucking deep to do what you did in pursuit of it.” 

Billy bowed his head, and James couldn’t see the expression on his face. 

They walked along in silence for some time, and James was certain Billy wasn’t going to answer him. He figured Billy probably didn’t know the answer either. But then to his surprise Billy spoke. 

“I never trusted you,” he said at last. “And you never trusted me either, not in all those years, even when I’d done nothing but support you. Which just made my not trusting stronger—what kind of a man is that suspicious of someone who should by anybody else’s standards be a friend?” He paused. “In the end I guess the not trusting ran so deep I just couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else making the mistake either. Seemed easier just to be rid of you and solve the problem altogether.” 

James peered at him, interested. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected—yet it had the ring of truth to it. But he couldn’t help needling the younger man. 

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you chased me to the end of the earth, aligned yourself with a butcher like Woodes Rogers, and killed half of your own crew because I didn’t want to be _friends_ with you?”

Billy turned to James now, face expressionless, and gazed down at him with impassive blue eyes. It was further proof of what he already knew—Billy Bones had changed. James raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to push back. 

He looked away, again off to some distant thing James couldn’t see. “Trust isn’t about friendship,” he said simply. He didn’t elaborate. 

James let the conversation fall into silence, thinking this over. He wouldn’t have guessed that Billy had it in him to be enigmatic—but then, he was making the same mistake he’d made time and again, still thinking of Billy as the moon-faced innocent trotting along in Hal’s shadow. He’d proven many times over that those days were long gone. 

They had made their way through the part of the markets closest to the docks, where the stalls were targeted largely for drunken sailors stumbling off ships for shore leave, and into the more respectable shops. Here there were actual store fronts rather than rag-tag stalls, selling wares to the people of Boston as well as traffic from the docks. James kept an eye out for somewhere he could pick up what he needed. 

He paused in front of a small shop door, and Billy stopped walking when he did, though he didn’t look around with any particular interest. 

“You’re going to go in here.” James told him. Billy did look up then, confused. “It’s a barber. Get a shave and a haircut. You look like you just got out of debtor’s prison.” James handed him a couple of smaller coins. “I’ll be on this row when you’re done, come find me.” 

Billy nodded dutifully, accepting the coins James handed him, and disappearing into the barbershop. 

James sighed a little. Glad to be rid of him, at least for the moment. Maybe he’d just wander off into Boston and disappear, which would solve a lot of problems. 

He continued his search down the street, eventually finding the shops he needed. His errand into the apothecary was quick—you didn’t live to be the most feared pirate captain in the new world without learning how to dress wounds well. If he hadn’t mastered that skill early on, he’d be long dead from any of the number of scrapes and gashes he’d acquired during his career. 

The second of his errands was trickier. He snorted, passing a stall of gaudy striped pants and heavily ornamented coats, trying to imagine Thomas kitted out in typical pirate-gear. It wasn’t such a bad idea, he thought. One of these days he’d like to see that. For now though, the goal was to make them all look _more_ reputable, not less. And that called for something a slightly more insipid color palette, unfortunately. 

Finally, he found a shop with clothing of a goodish quality, good enough for them to appear to be something like respectable merchants at least. Then he was faced with the task of choosing items for each member of the group—a more formidable challenge than he had prepared himself for. 

Thomas was easiest. James knew his size, and these clothes were the closest to a style he would have worn anyway, in his former life. It wasn’t hard to picture him in these tidy suits, white ascot high at the neck. James selected a dove grey suit in a light material. Although a chill was already creeping into the air here in Boston, in Nassau they would be happy for clothes that would keep cool. 

He faltered when it came to choosing something for himself. His choice at any point in the last ten years would have been something dark, something dark, and something dark. Which was exactly the sort of “I’m Captain Flint, terror of the south seas” look he was trying to avoid. But back before his days as Captain Flint, all he’d ever really worn was his navy issue uniform. So he dithered, giving the shopkeeper such a ferocious glare when he asked to assist that the man fled to the back room. And then he scoffed at himself for being indecisive about clothes of all things. 

Finally, he selected a dark navy coat with heavy braiding at the cuffs and collar, over a simple white shirt and tan breeches. Though he would never have admitted to it, he was secretly pleased—the items were somehow precisely in between his navy uniform and his pirate garb: nearly navy colors, pirate style.

Abigail presented an entirely different problem. Firstly, he wasn’t sure he was qualified to choose women’s clothes. Secondly, he wasn’t sure she would wear a dress if he brought her one, though that would be altogether preferable for making them look less suspicious. He couldn’t decide if he should just buy a gown and assume he could persuade her (a dubious proposition when it came to Abigail, if she decided against it there would almost certainly be nothing he could do) or if he should settle for something that was clean and would fit in a men’s style. 

He frowned over a table of shirts. What had Eleanor usually worn before she married Rogers? He seemed to remember she hadn’t had a problem with skirts—though nothing like Miranda’s proper genteel attire. Madi too, he thought had worn skirts. But no, he also seemed to remember her in some sort of flowing trousers, not exactly like men’s but not open either…that was no help, he certainly wouldn’t find anything like that here. Anne Bonny always seemed to be in men’s clothes…yes, he was certain he’d never seen her in anything but breeches. He scrunched his face, trying to picture what it was Bonny normally wore. Would Abigail be happier with something like that? 

Exasperated, he decided on both. He purchased a light blue gown and a set of the smallest men’s clothing he could find. Better just to have all of his options covered. He had to call the timid little shopkeeper man out of hiding to help choose women’s underthings, which was exceedingly uncomfortable for both of them. The shopkeeper wrapped them up like the roof was on fire, and James was grateful, though he tried not to show it on his face. 

He had just turned again, trying to figure out what he should buy for Billy, when the man in question arrived himself. 

“Just in time,” James said, trying not to sound relieved at all. “Best pick out some clean things.” 

Billy was looking much less haggard with the help of a clean-shaven face and close cropped hair. But it didn’t seem to have lifted his mood at all, or engendered any kind of interest in the rest of his appearance. He just shrugged. 

“I’m fine.” 

James was reaching the absolute end of his patience, and growled, slapping his hand on the counter, “you are _not_ fine, you look like a bloody conscript!”

Billy looked over the tables and racks of clothes, but didn’t really seem to see them. “Whatever you think then.” 

James threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. “For the love of Christ.” 

He stalked over to a pile of white shirts, lifting one up and eyeing it for size. Billy was a bit taller than Thomas so this should work…he flung it in Billy’s direction. Billy caught it without comment. 

When James picked up a light colored pair of striped trousers though he did speak up. 

“Not those ones, I’ll look like bloody Rackham.”

“Well then why don’t you pick what you will wear?” James said hotly, his anger compounded as he found that he didn’t like his aesthetic choices being disparaged. He did _not_ care what anybody wore! This was all just practicality! Billy pulled out a pair of plain, dark brown breeches for himself and James huffed. 

“Satisfied? Can we wrap up this interminable mess?”

Billy shrugged again, and James suppressed a noise of frustration. 

“Remember,” he grumbled to Billy, turning to the cowering shopkeeper to pay for their things, “You’re the one who has to carry this all back.”

***

In the end, it hadn’t quite worked out that Billy was able to be the beast of burden for all of their shopping, as Flint had quite simply bought too much for him to carry, even on his best day. With two broken ribs he wasn’t able to accommodate nearly as heavy a load. Flint had had to relent and take an armload himself as they made their way back through the market. 

After the clothiers, Flint had bought boots for himself and Hamilton, who had both still been wearing the plain, flimsy shoes from wherever they’d been before. 

Last, they’d stopped at a stall selling weapons, and Billy could fairly read the thoughts pouring out of Flint as he hesitated there. It would be safest to arm all of them, just in case. But he didn’t trust Billy. And he didn’t want to arouse suspicion on their ship by climbing back aboard with several new swords. Hamilton was out of commission thanks to his wound even if he were armed. 

He wasn’t sure if Flint thought about arming Abigail, and his mind flinched away from the thought of her as soon as he had touched on it. 

Finally, he purchased only one simple dagger and sheath, which would hook to his belt. He turned around with it in his hands, his look daring Billy to protest or try to persuade him that he too should be given a weapon. Billy didn’t. 

Then they moved off, back toward the ship without further conversation. 

This time, as they approached The _Castlemain_ in the launch, Billy eyed it with a little more interest than he’d been able to muster yesterday. 

It wasn’t a large ship, but not a small sloop like the one he’d been on to get here either. He guessed maybe three score men manning it at most—possibly less, since merchant vessels like this tended to keep their crews running as small as they could; fewer men meant less profit spent on paying them. The crew had been reloading her hold since they’d docked, so she was riding much heavier in the water now than when he and Flint had come ashore. All in all, Billy thought, she wouldn’t have been too bad a prize. 

But that thought brought him a swift and unexpected pain, thinking of his brothers and the simpler days when they had hunted the seas together. 

He would never sail on the account again. 

So what was he going to do now then? His mind returned to the painful question like a tongue to a toothache, worrying at it over and over again with no results. Billy frankly had never thought of a life beyond piracy. Even back in the heady days of chasing the Urca gold, when the men would spend their hours on watch discussing what they’d do when they didn’t need to work, he’d never had a good answer. He’d always known he couldn’t go back to what he was before, and it had been beyond him to imagine what he might become after. 

Things had not clarified now, even though the urgency of the question was much greater. Now he had no choice but to figure it out, and his mind and heart still refused to be of any help. When he tried to imagine the future, everything was blurry and out of focus. He’d assumed before that it was for the best, since he almost certainly wouldn’t have one. But now it was still hazy, and he had no better idea than he did before. He was entirely adrift. 

Back on The _Castlemain_ , Billy’s thoughts were broken by curiosity about their accommodations. He wondered how much Flint had offered for their passage, and figured it must have been a sizable sum—they weren’t being housed in the main crew quarters, but some semi-private space which looked to have housed cargo before they arrived. Flint would’ve had to have made it worth the captain’s while to forgo the extra space for goods. He glanced over at Abigail, who had come to greet them when they arrived, her face bright as she beamed at Flint. Probably she was the reason Flint had gone to such trouble. Though he reconsidered as he watched Flint lean over Hamilton, a look of tenderness and concern on his face that Billy had never seen there before. His body had a protectiveness toward the man as he leaned over him that hadn’t been there even as he’d hugged Abigail affectionately. 

Billy turned away, embarrassed to have witnessed the intimate moment, and clamored into his hammock, facing the curved wall. 

He hadn’t realized that what he’d said to Flint was the truth until it was coming out of his mouth. He’d never had much reason to examine his hatred and fear of the man closely since it had always been well-founded at a glance. But since he’d said it, he’d turned it over in his mind and found that it was accurate—underneath that hate, and fear, and anger was a Billy of many years ago who had deeply wanted to trust the men who saved him from slavery, and instead had found shifting sands of loyalty on which he could never rely. And Flint, who could neither trust nor be trusted. He didn’t know if it made any of it more excusable, or less worthy, or anything. Maybe it was just more true. 

“I don’t think we’ve really properly met,” said a voice next to him, breaking him from his musings. 

It was Thomas Hamilton, who had swung his legs over the side of his hammock to face Billy. Behind him, Flint and Abigail were having some sort of heated discussion, both glowering and gesturing angrily at a pile of clothes spread across Abigail’s hammock. “My name is Thomas Hamilton.” He was smiling, and reached out a hand to shake. 

Reflexively, Billy responded, shaking his hand and looking at him with interest. 

“Pleasure to meet you…my Lord.” He ventured, deciding to try out a guess. 

Hamilton’s face flickered almost imperceptibly, but he quickly regained his smile. “That was well done—very clever. But of course I am rarely addressed by that title anymore, as I no longer can lay any claim to it.” 

Billy nodded. That was fine, he’d just wanted to confirm. “Billy Bones. Though I was William Manderley…a long time ago.” 

“Good…good. I know a little too much about Billy Bones I’m afraid, I think should have trouble liking that person. Too much water under the bridge, you know, too many shots fired. But I believe I could be pleased to meet William Manderley.” 

“Wish I could say they aren’t the same, when you get to the root of it.” 

Thomas considered him. “That may be true. But there is power in the name of things. Take James—I believe the sooner you stop thinking of him as Flint, the sooner you will understand who he is now.” 

“He seems…” Billy began slowly, “he seems to listen to you. That’s good. I dunno if he ever really listened to anyone before. If that’s the case and he has changed I hope you know what you’re doing with him.”

Thomas smiled kindly, and glanced back at Flint, now saying something which he punctuated with a stomp after each word. 

“I think all of this will be easier for you if you can begin to think of me not as someone he will listen to…but rather as the reason why he never listened to anyone else.”

“How d’you mean?”

“You called me Lord, so I imagine you know or have guessed some of our history. For a long, long time James believed me dead. It was my death which birthed the Captain Flint you know. But it was seeing me alive which put Captain Flint to rest. You see, I am alive and therefore he need not be consumed by avenging my death. Captain Flint’s entire being was composed of vengeance. You knew a man who had lost everything—James is instead a man who had gained everything. So you see, they could not be more different.”

Billy clenched his jaw, considering. He wasn’t sure if it was the wisest thing he’d ever heard, or the greatest piece of bullshit. And he’d heard some good bullshit (spun some too) in his time. 

“My concern of course,” Hamilton went on, “is whether you are the same man that you were. Because if you are—“ he paused, eyes keen, and Billy had the sudden impression that this man was a force of intelligence never to be underestimated, “well then I’m afraid there will be trouble. Because that man was chasing a ghost. I hope William Manderley will not make the same mistake.” 

With that, Hamilton turned (with some difficulty) from Billy, hoisting his stiff leg back into his swinging hammock, and called over to Flint. 

“James my love, when you’ve finished engaging in whatever supremely useless argument you are having with Abigail, would you come tend to my leg? Then you can simply leave her to do whatever she was going to in the first place.” 

Billy glanced at the pair, who were indeed still locked in battle. He watched them for a moment, meditating on what Hamilton had said. It was hard for Billy to imagine Captain Flint, red faced, staring down a pale young woman over whatever issue of clothing had come between them. As far as he had ever known, Captain Flint had barely ever noticed other people aside from what use they could serve for him. 

He wondered if James would be more likely than Flint to believe in Billy’s remorse, or if just not killing him was the best he could ever hope for. And he wondered if it mattered.

He sighed, and rolled out of the hammock, making his way for the upper deck and fresh air. Soon they’d be leaving Boston, en route to Port Royal, and he had some serious thinking to do before then.


	9. On Board The Castlemain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James worries about Billy, Billy worries about Abigail.

“I still don’t like it,” James muttered under his breath, trying quietly to have the last word. 

Thomas didn’t let him. “I know you don’t,” he said, patiently, like a teacher explaining a difficult concept to a thickheaded student, “but I think if you look at it logically as I know you are able, you’ll see that there is no reason for your reservations at this moment.” 

James looked back at the closed cabin door, reproachful. “I just don’t like him being alone with her.” 

Against his wishes (and, he thought, his better judgement), Abigail and Billy had gone up to the deck to get some air while James attended to Thomas’ wound. So far, he hadn’t accomplished much doctoring, as his eyes had been drawn to the cabin door more than they had been on the poultice and fresh bandaging laid out in front of him. 

“Allow me then to elaborate on the ways in which you are being a perfect goose. First, what reason would Billy possibly have to harm Abigail? In fact, it seems to me he has every reason to protect her if you think he’s still afraid of you. Second, you all have been cooped up down here with me entirely too much, and Abigail has been looking peaked. She needs the air. Third, you are the only one able to redress my leg, so you are needed here.” He stopped counting, and James looked away sulkily, not deigning to answer. 

“Last,” he added, in a lower voice, “I am beginning to be afraid it is perhaps not healing as it should…and I desire no one but you here to see it if I am right.” 

“It’s healing _fine_ ,” James said, emphatically, as if he could threaten the flesh and blood to do as he commanded as he commanded men to follow his orders. Thomas gave him a rueful smile, and James began to unwind yesterday’s wrappings. 

Once the bandages were off, Thomas couldn’t quite see the main part of the gash, but James frowned down at it long enough to tell him that his theory was proving correct. 

“How bad is it?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. 

James let out a long breath. “Not as bad as it yet could be. But you’re right, it’s not healing quite as I’d like it to either.” 

Thomas clenched his teeth together for a long moment. “I hoped that I was wrong, and simply feeling the normal discomfort of healing from something like this, which is out of my realm of experience. But I did not think it should feel quite so…hot. It’s an unpleasant sensation. Nearly as unpleasant as acquiring it in the first place. Will you be able to do something about it?” 

“The poultice should at least keep it from getting worse until we get to Nassau…although…” he trailed off, deep in thought. 

“Although what?” Thomas prompted him, managing to keep most of the worry out of his voice, though his heart fluttered. “My love you can’t stop in the middle of a thought like that and leave me wondering how that sentence ends…” 

James looked up from the fresh poultice he was spreading on the wound and into Thomas’ face, recognizing the fear which Thomas was doing his best to hide. “I’m sorry, I was going to say that although there are better doctors and medicines in Nassau, that is not where I have seen the best care for something like this. I am wondering how it might be possible to find any of the people I know of who can do better.” 

Thomas swallowed and nodded, a little of that bright burst of fear ebbing, though not all. “Someone who…who tended John’s leg?” 

James nodded, looking absently toward the one small porthole, though not much of anything was visible out of it. “He didn’t tend to it as he should have right after the amputation…it started to go bad. Likely he would have lost even more of it, but that was when we found ourselves amongst the maroons. They put some medicine on it that seemed to work better than anything else. I wonder…well I hope it doesn’t come to it, but I wonder if I could seek help there again and be offered it.” 

“Well.” Said Thomas. “Well so I have some options, and a good attentive physician. We will manage.” 

James nodded in agreement, and finished tying a clean knot in the fresh bandaging. 

“Indeed we will,” he said, helping Thomas to lift his leg back into the hammock. “Now move over, and make room for me.” 

Thomas smiled weakly, “my love as much as I would like to oblige there is certainly not enough room for us two in this contraption.”

“If there’s room enough for Billy Bones in one of these things it can definitely hold you and I,” James said, lifting Thomas’ legs to one side of the swinging canvas. 

“Billy Bones may be taller than average, but he is _not_ as big as the two of us put together!” Thomas laughed, protesting helplessly. 

But this time James’ will won out, and soon he was installed behind Thomas, legs on either side of him, careful not to bump his sore wound as the hammock creaked precariously. 

Thomas sighed as James settled in, resting his head back against his solid shoulder. 

James wrapped his arms firmly around Thomas, resting his cheek on top of his golden head. 

“Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise it.” He said softly into Thomas’ ear. 

Thomas smiled, though James couldn’t see. “Then I’ll take you at your word, because I don’t know anyone in the world as stubborn as you.” 

“Except you.” James added. 

“Except me.” 

“So between us two, and perhaps borrowing a little further stubbornness from Abigail, I believe even nature herself would think twice before defying us.” 

“Just so,” said Thomas, closing his eyes. “Just so.” 

James began to hum something like a lullaby ever so softly in his ear. Thomas sighed, allowing himself to be hypnotized by the gentle swaying of the hammock and the warmth and comfort of James’ body sheltering him. 

Soon he was fast asleep, rocked by the sea and the arms of his love—who despite his seeming stillness, was worrying enough for the both of them. 

***

Of course, as was the way of things all too often, he was worrying along all the wrong lines.

Billy, for one, was certainly no threat of any kind to Abigail. At this point in fact he had yet to muster up the courage even to speak to her. Every time he started to try, he was stopped in his tracks by some memory that filled him with guilt and stopped the words before they could even form. He had so much material to distract him, he thought, ranging from the mundanely humiliating of having read her journal to the devastating flashes of his crewmen at the end of a rifle sight. 

Each time the thought of the journal occurred, he thought miserably of the man he had been, and the way she’d seen him then—young, strong, and too good for the circumstances in which he’d found himself. Which inevitably led him to the second line of memory, and the despicable things he’d done since then to render him exactly none of those things. 

As far as he could tell though, Abigail was content to ignore him. They’d taken up seats as out-of-the-way of the sailors as they could find, letting the salty wind and occasional cool sea spray blow over them. He glanced over at her. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, letting the sun shine down on her face. He remembered that she had been very pale before, and noticed that although her skin was just as fair, she had spots of pink across her cheekbones and a scattering of freckles on her nose that weren’t there before—souvenirs of a life which put her much more out of doors than the one she’d been leading last time he saw her. He swallowed hard and looked away. He shouldn’t be noticing any of that. 

Billy reached up, idly, to itch at the collar of his brand new shirt. It fit him well enough, he supposed, but it felt constricting, the style much more formal than he was used to. Probably just because of the sleeves, he thought glumly. The best part about being a pirate had been never needing to wear sleeves. He fidgeted again with the tight cuff of the shirt. 

“The linen is quite bothersome, isn’t it?” Abigail’s voice surprised him, and he looked up to find her keen dark eyes on him. 

“Oh—uh yeah I suppose so.”

Abigail looked down wryly at her own white shirt under her leather vest, not much different from the cut of his. “I don’t know how men put up with it. But I suppose there must be some trade for the lack of stays.” 

Billy blushed a little, though he couldn’t have said why. He cleared his throat. “What were you and Flint arguing about?”

She laughed a little, “Oh Uncle James, he cited a strong preference for me to wear the gown he brought, and I in turn cited a strong preference against it. He was trying to convince me.” 

“But you weren’t convinced?” 

Abigail pulled a face. “Not in the least.” She had such a fascinating voice, Billy thought, the rises and falls odd but appealing, making everything she said sound a little whimsical. “Having just escaped the burden of copious skirts I was in no mood to return to them immediately. I find I quite enjoy wearing breeches.” 

Billy glanced at her legs, propped up on a huge coil of rope as she sat on the ships railing, then away at once. 

“Yeah…I’d imagine,” he replied, lamely. 

Abigail gave a short bark of laughter, surprising him. “Would you? I wouldn’t think any man’s imagination could really encompass the specific misery of women’s fashion.” 

Billy ducked his head. “Well, when you put it that way I guess not.” 

Abigail leaned back again, and Billy watched nervously. “Er—are you sure you should be sitting up there?” 

“Afraid that I’ll fall?”

“It’s happened before.” 

“To you?” she asked, shooting him an interested look. 

He nodded, embarrassed. “Three times, actually.” 

“Well three times seems truly excessive.” Her mouth curved slightly. “So I’m forced to believe you are either lying or have much worse luck than any normal person, and in either case I should be fine.” 

“I’m not lying…I suppose you could call it bad luck. But whatever the reason I wouldn’t recommend the experience—oi!” he exclaimed, as she leaned even further back, a challenging smile on her face, “look just be careful, alright? If not for your sake then at least for mine, because Flint will in no uncertain terms murder me if anything happens to you.” 

Abigail sobered, considering the truth of that, and put her feet firmly back on the deck. “I am afraid I can’t deny the logic of that.” She cast a wistful glance over her shoulder, down to the water, “but it’s been so long since I’ve had fresh air or seen the sea,” she added, sadly. 

Billy bit his lip, hesitating. “Alright, look. I’ve got an idea.” He moved over to her, a little warily, like someone approaching a skittish horse. Abigail raised an eyebrow but watched his movements without comment as he reached down beside her and unwound the long tail of a rigging rope. 

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward her hand. 

“You may,” Abigail replied, placing it delicately in his. 

Billy’s heart thumped a fraction harder for a moment, a realization that he banished as soon as it came to him. Abigail was gazing at her slender fingers, disappearing within his much larger hand. Quickly, he wrapped the rope several times around her right wrist, and tied it off, dropping her hand as soon as he was done. He went back to his seat across the bow. 

“Hold on to that,” he said, suddenly very interested in examining his own fingernails, “at least if you go over you’ll have something to hold onto and we can haul you back in.” 

Abigail tugged experimentally on the rope, which didn’t budge from where it was secured against the railing, and nodded, pleased. At that moment, the ship hit an unexpected swell, throwing the deck off balance. Abigail threw herself forward and caught her feet under her again, but not without sharing a momentary look of startled panic with Billy, who had in that moment risen half to his feet to leap after her. 

“Just don’t test it too strongly,” he said, and settled back down to the deck with a deep sigh.


	10. Sails!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sails on the horizon promise trouble on the Castlemain

Thomas’ head felt heavy and pleasant resting against James chest. James had stopped humming, possibly having fallen asleep, and the little cabin was quiet but for the sound of James’ slow, steady heartbeat in his ear. 

“James?” Thomas hated breaking the stillness, but couldn’t help himself. “Are you going to take me to see her?”

“Hmm?” James asked, sleepily. 

“Madi, I mean. She’s the one you meant, isn’t she, who helped heal John’s leg.” 

James stirred behind him, and sighed. “I don’t know if she is the one who made the salve, but she’s the one most likely to offer me help if I asked.” 

“Do you have reason to think she wouldn’t?”

He felt James sigh again. “I don’t know. I don’t know how things went between them after I…was gone. I can’t imagine she was pleased.” 

“And you think she may blame you?”

“No…” he began, thoughtful, “I think she must have known that whatever part I had in ending our war before it began, it was an unwilling one. But I think that the end of it may also very well have marked the maroon camp’s last attempt at allying with anyone outside of themselves.” 

“But what about just Madi?”

“What about her?” 

“From what you’ve told me…it sounds as if John loved her very much. You think she’d turn her back on him as well?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Guess then.” 

When he answered, the words sounded like James was pulling them in from a long way off. “My guess is that she would have had a much harder time believing that he did what he did out of love for her—or caring that he did—than he would have hoped.” 

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“You think he did what he did out of love?”

There was a long pause, and Thomas held his breath. He knew it wasn’t easy for James to speak about John and the things that had passed between them, and he couldn’t blame him. Still, he knew James’ heart ached over the man and he desperately wanted to know what he was thinking as they drew nearer and nearer to meeting again. 

“I think he did what he thought was best for the people he cared about.” James said at last. 

Thomas tried to interpret his tone. “But you don’t agree?”

“I think you can love someone and not understand them.” 

“And do you think that’s what he felt for you and Madi?”

“No. Unfortunately I think he understood me better than I’d ever guessed. But yes, I am afraid he never had the same depth of insight into Madi, though he loved her deeply.” 

“And you? Did you understand him as he did you?”

James was silent, Thomas counting heartbeats in the wake of the question, afraid he’d pushed James too hard. He too had things from their missing years which he had yet to share fully—things that were too painful for himself to relive or that he didn’t want James to have to bear with him. Maybe John was one of those things. 

“No. No, I don’t think I did.” 

***

The two young people stayed topside for another long, sunny hour after that, Abigail intent on soaking in all the sun and sea air that she could handle. _This_ was what she had needed this past year, to banish her fevers and headaches and whatever else had ailed her on the plantation. At this moment, with the ship beneath her boots and the ocean at her back, she felt healthier than she’d ever been. 

She certainly felt healthier than Billy looked, she thought privately, casting a glance at him through her half-shut eyes. Although he was much cleaner after his and Uncle James’ excursion ashore, his clean shave and close cropped hair highlighted his thin face. His cheekbones were much sharper than she’d remembered them being, and there was an almost grey tinge to his skin. He probably needed this time in the sun and fresh air as much as she did. And anyway, Abigail thought generously, James and Thomas would benefit from a moment alone as well. 

She was just starting to think though that they had better return to their quarters when she noticed a general scuffling and commotion at the other end of the ship—suddenly the sailors above decks were scrambling about the rigging with much more urgency than they’d shown before. 

She was turning to Billy when he seemed to notice it as well, standing quickly from his own perch and moving to her side. 

“What’s happening?” she asked him, eyes on the captain of the ship, who was in deep conference with a man holding a spyglass. 

“Not sure,” Billy said, frowning in the same direction. “Don’t like the look of it though. Best get out of the way.” He reached hastily for her hand, and was undoing his careful knot when one of the crew rushed over to them. 

“Clear off you two, down to quarters!” 

Billy shifted his stance slightly as Abigail slid off the railing to stand on the deck, putting his body between her and the man. “What’s happening?”

“Sails! The man called, already moving off to another hurried task. “Go down and we’ll tell you when you can come back topside. ’Til then stay out of the way!” 

Billy turned to Abigail, and she saw concern on his face. 

“Best do just that,” he told her, protectively taking her elbow as they made their way across the deck. 

“Why?” Abigail asked curiously, shaking him off. 

“Never can tell what sails on a horizon might bring,” he said, squinting across the ship out toward the expanse of blue sea. 

Abigail followed him, reluctant, she wanted to see more of what the crew was doing, and whether she could spot the ship somewhere out there. 

But she did remember some of what could occur when sails appeared where they shouldn’t, and although Ned Lowe was long dead, she wasn’t keen on repeating anything like the experience. 

This time, she resolved, she’d face whatever came with a knife in her hand. As hateful as the feeling had been, Abigail was glad now that she had retrieved her knife from the guard’s neck back in the orchard. 

Before Abigail and Billy had even gotten to the stairs into the lower berths, another crewman had decided that they weren’t moving fast enough and came to hustle them into their quarters. The result was that the pair fairly burst into the small space, with the door slammed—and barred—behind them. 

“What did you _do_?” James demanded of Billy, extricating himself with difficulty made worse with haste from the hammock. 

“Me? Nothing!” Billy protested, aghast. 

At the same time Abigail exclaimed, “Uncle! Nothing!” 

“Then what on earth got you an escort off the deck and the rest of us locked in here?” He glowered, and Abigail suspected he was even angrier than he would have been otherwise because they’d walked in on him in such a soft and vulnerable state. He’d moved very close, glaring up into Billy’s face menacingly. Though Abigail had witnessed James being affectionate with Thomas plenty often, she figured he didn’t want to show anything that looked like softness in front of a man he still mistrusted. Thomas, who seemed only to have awoken as James had scrambled out from behind him, blinked bemusedly between the two young people’s looks of consternation and James glower. 

“What’s happening?” He asked, voice thick with sleep. 

“Ask them!” James said with an outraged gesture, “one of them apparently pissed off enough of the crew to get them kicked off the deck and all of us locked in here!” 

Abigail crossed her arms and stepped in front of Billy, forcing James to step slightly back, a reverse motion of the one Billy had made to block her from the agitated sailor above only a few minutes ago. Her small frame wasn’t as effective at hiding him from view, but it did force James to look at her instead of glaring at Billy. She could feel Billy shifting awkwardly behind her, uncertain of what to do with himself and how to deal with her intercepting James’ ire. 

“What on earth would make you assume that we’d done something to earn this treatment?” she demanded, irritated by his narrow-minded jumping to conclusions.

“What would lead me to think anything else?” he shot back. He had that look on his face—the scary, pirate captain look where he bared all of his teeth, talking through them like a wolf establishing his alpha status in a pack. It didn’t work on Abigail, as he well knew by now. She wasn’t a wolf, and she didn’t care what his role in his pack was. 

“I would hope,” Abigail said with great dignity, “that you might at least give me the benefit of the doubt.” 

“So? What happened?” 

“Sails,” Billy interjected from over Abigail’s shoulder. “Everyone’s scrambling to their posts and wanted us out of the way in a hurry.” 

Though Abigail wouldn’t have thought it was possible, James’ eyebrows lowered even further at this pronouncement. 

“It’s true,” she added, thinking his increased anger was from disbelief. “The man up in the ropes called out that there were sails on the horizon.” 

James spun away from them, hand going to the dagger on his belt, the rest of his body really still. 

“Uncle?” Abigail asked, after a charged moment of silence. 

James turned again, slowly, his face deep in thought. “It’s probably nothing.” He said, eyes darting to the useless porthole. “Probably nothing,” he repeated, quietly, as if to himself. He looked at the heavy wooden door of their quarters, now barred heavily from the outside, and sighed. “No matter what it is, there’s nothing we can do from in here at the moment but wait.” 

James turned to Thomas, who looked grave now, and cupped his cheek with one hand, gently. “Let us hope that whatever it is that approaches may be counted a friend at least by us.” 

Abigail watched as Thomas’ eyes searched James’ face, but without seeing both sides of the unspoken conversation could not guess at what had passed between them. She wondered what it would be like to know someone so well that you could have a whole conversation without speaking. She glanced at Billy out of the corner of her eye, and saw that he too was observing the silent exchange. Some people couldn’t even communicate _with_ words, she thought. 

At last, James leaned in toward Thomas, briefly touching their foreheads together. Then James broke away from Thomas, looking back at Abigail and Billy, who stood by the door uncertainly, and took pity on them. 

“Like I said, nothing to do but wait and be as prepared as we can. Let’s start by moving away from the door, both of you. And Abigail…”

“Yes Uncle?” 

“You still have the third knife?” his face was inscrutable. 

“Yes.”

His eyes locked on Billy’s, and her answer hung in the air for a long, long moment. 

“Give it to Billy please.” 

The two men continued to hold one another’s gaze, sorting out something which Abigail wasn’t fully able to catch—there was a lot of that going around, she thought resentfully—as she moved to retrieve the knife from her small pack. 

She handed it to Billy hilt first, and he accepted, though his eyes didn’t leave James’ face. 

“Is this going to be something I regret, Billy?” James asked at last, each word carefully enunciated and loaded with the weight of something more. 

“No.” Billy replied. 

There was another pregnant pause. “Good.” Said James with a tone of finality. Then he very deliberately turned his back on the other man, toward Thomas, in an unspoken test. 

Billy, gaze freed from James, retreated without looking at him to the other side of the small cabin space, taking up a vigilant position in the corner with his eyes on the door. Abigail watched his face, but wasn’t able to read anything new there. His blue eyes were dark and seemed to be looking at something very far away. 

Abigail returned to her own hammock with an exasperated sigh. Men. They could be so dramatic about things. 

They all sat that way, tense and alert for some time. Billy examined the knife Abigail had given him—Thomas’ unused kitchen blade. Abigail braided and unbraided her hair. James and Thomas had another whispered conference that she couldn’t hear. Above them, the sound of running boots rattled the heavy timber of the deck. 

Finally, when it felt like the tension couldn’t grow any higher, there was an almighty crash against the hull of the ship, and they were all thrown headlong against the opposite wall. 

Abigail was slow to recover her footing, dazed by the unexpected flight out of her hammock. Then Billy was at her elbow, helping her to stand and asking if she was alright. She nodded, still spinning. He kept a hold of her arm for a moment longer than it took her to steady herself, and she looked up at him in that brief instant before he let go and moved away down the length of the wall. 

James had been even faster than Billy, and by the time she looked again around the little space, he had already helped Thomas, and was standing in a defensive pose with his knife in one hand and his Boston-bought dagger in the other, facing the door. 

“What—” Abigail began, confused. 

“Pirates,” James said, his voice ringing clear and calm in the sudden quiet following the crash, not taking his eyes from the door. 

“We’re being boarded,” Billy added, in a low voice. 

She saw that he too had his knife out at the ready. She fumbled for her own blade, drawing it from her belt, and for a moment her breath caught as she was looking at it in her hand, but seeing it buried in the guard’s neck, blood coursing over her white fist. Abigail willed her heart to be quiet as it pounded in her throat, feeling as if she couldn’t hear anything moving forward over its roar. But there was nothing to hear; an eerie silence had fallen. Still, she could tell from the taught lines of James’ and Billy’s backs that they expected whatever was coming to arrive at any moment. 

Just when she thought she might explode with the expectation, there was a deafening blast which once again rocked them all back—this time Billy and James both managed to keep their feet, and Abigail, with her back to a wall, simply fell against it into a kind of half crouch. 

There was a crack as the door burst open, followed immediately by a blinding, suffocating plume of smoke. Abigail coughed, eyes watering, trying to cover her nose and mouth with her sleeve, unable to see anything. She could feel Billy’s bulk move up beside her, putting himself in front of her, and she heard rather than saw James retreating toward them to give himself more space between him and whatever was coming through the door. She had no idea if either of them could see or breathe in this choking haze. Maybe they had grown accustomed to this kind of thing, and could still keep their senses clear enough to face whatever was about to attack…

Then as soon as it had started the smoke began to dissipate, and from the door came a drawling, insouciant voice. 

“Oh for the love of _god_ , you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”


	11. New Ship, Old Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On board an unfamiliar ship but greeted by some very familiar faces, the four look ahead to Nassau

Jack’s back was to them across his large captain’s desk as he fiddled with something in the massive, ornate wood cabinet that stood against the wall. James waited patiently, not going to speak first. Finally, Rackham turned around with a dusty bottle and a set of small glasses—a frivolous furnishing on a ship where they were as likely to break as not on any given day. 

“I think we could all do with a little drink before we get into things don’t you?” Jack said, setting the glasses on the desk and pouring a wicked looking deep purple liquid into them from the bottle. He handed one to James, locking eyes with him as he added, “after all, it isn’t every day one returns from the dead now is it?”

James nodded once, and raised the glass to Rackham before taking a sip. Jack passed a little glass to each of the others, and James saw Abigail looking at it with deep suspicion before Thomas gave her a wink. James suppressed a smile. 

But it was almost too strange for him to take in entirely, sitting in this lavishly furnished captain’s office with Thomas next to him, Rackham across from him, and Abigail, Billy, and Bonny placed around the rest of the room. The world of James McGraw was once again colliding with that of Captain Flint, but with Thomas beside him. These were people he had never imagined being under one roof together. 

Jack, having performed his host duties (he was always one for a flair of drama, James noted), sat back in his high backed chair and surveyed James over his glass of port. 

“So. Here we are.” 

“Yeah.” James said. 

“I have to say, this is a meeting I did _not_ prepare myself for. When I heard about the fugitive bounty being offered in Charles Town I did wonder, but I just couldn’t believe…”

“Bounty?” James prompted. 

Jack pursed his lips. “Mmm. Got word while we were in port that there was a bounty being offered for an escaped fugitive—no name, but he fit your description. Well I imagine it would be bad for business if Oglethorpe advertised he was losing the people he gets paid to make disappear—that and the fact that Captain Flint is supposed to be _dead_ and therefore hard to collect a bounty on. You’re here to cause trouble for me, aren’t you?”

“I can’t say that you really factored into my decision making process.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake you know exactly what you mean. I did some very important business based on the fact that you were as good as dead—which if you recall is the main reason I didn’t have to kill you myself—”

“Hmph.” 

“Oh you don’t think I could have done it? Well I would have tried. I think it was best for us all when your death took a different form. Yet here you are, and I’m at a loss what I must do with you now.” 

“Take us back to Nassau,” James said, calmly, “drop us off and we can all get on with our lives.” 

Jack was getting flustered now. “You getting on with your life is _precisely_ the kind of trouble I need to avoid!” 

“I have no intention of resurrecting Captain Flint.” 

“Then what in god’s name could you possibly want with Nassau?”

“I want to go back to my land, rebuild my house, and be left alone.” 

It was Jack’s turn to give a doubtful “hmph,” and he turned to Anne with an exasperated motion as if asking her to do something. 

Anne was leaning in a corner, as was her wont, hat pulled low as ever over her face. But she looked up now, taking James’ measure. He caught her eye and she didn’t look away. She’d come into her own, he thought, since the days of his dealing with Charles Vane. She hadn’t liked to be pinned down by anyone’s notice then, and now she seemed content to hold his gaze as long as he was. 

“I say we take ’em.” Anne said at last in her low purr. 

“What?” Jack yelped, incredulous. “Anne, darling, do you know what kind of problems it’ll make for me with Madame Guthrie if Captain Flint shows up again rampaging? She wasn’t entirely pleased with my colorful bit of metaphor and imagery when I told her he was ‘dead’ before if you’ll recall—”

“Who’s Madame Guthrie?” James broke in, sharply. “I thought I had seen the last of that family die on Nassau soil.”

“Yes, well. While you and Silver were off chasing each other about that island, Anne and Max and I went to try and make some…alternative arrangements. Part of which heavily relied on the partnership of Madame Guthrie, Eleanor’s grandmother and a _highly_ formidable opponent should she feel that we have ducked our end of the bargain.” He said this last with a pointed look at Anne, who shrugged. 

“Well,” James said, “you can believe me or not, but I’m as interested in leaving Captain Flint in the ground as you are.” 

Rackham gave him a long hard, look, then broke it with an annoyed “bah! We both know you could lie to me through your teeth whether that’s the case or not.”

“Yeah.” James said. 

“Anne!” Jack whined, appealing to the stoic figure. Anne did not immediately come to his aid. 

Billy cleared his throat, surprising everyone into looking his direction where he sat, hulking, by the door, left out of the conversation. 

“If it counts for anything, I can vouch for what he says.” 

“You?” Rackham asked, incredulous. “What can your guarantee possibly be worth here, or to anyone who knows you?” 

Billy looked down, acknowledging the deserved slight. But he said, “because I’d have no reason to tell you what he wants you to hear if I didn’t believe it.” He looked over at James, and James held his eye, trying to read what his motive might be there. “I can tell you from what I have seen that what he says is true—Flint’s dead. This man is someone entirely different.” 

“How could you _possibly_ know for sure?” Jack asked, emphatically. 

“Because I’m still here,” Billy said, simply. “You can’t imagine Flint letting that happen, can you?”

Rackham frowned, shooting another look at Anne that James couldn’t intercept. Then he sighed heavily, reaching up a hand to rub his forehead. 

“Fuck me.” He said at last. “You’re damned lucky I can’t think of anything else to do with you—but I think believing you is the most convenient thing for me at the moment so I hope I don’t seriously regret this later.” 

James took another sip of port. “You’ll take us to Nassau?”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, as if asking for patience. 

“Yes, I suppose this means we’ll take you to Nassau. God help me.”

James relaxed into his chair. “Thank you.” 

Jack opened his eyes and shot him a look, then turned his eyes over to Billy as said with a healthy dose of sarcasm, “You know that’s the first time I think I’ve ever heard him say that—maybe you’re not full of shit.” 

Billy shrugged. Jack shook his head and brought his hand to his temple again. 

“Anne?”

Anne stepped slightly away from the wall. 

“Will you let the crew know about our—er—passengers?”

“What should I tell them?”

“I have no idea. Anything you can think of. As far from the truth as possible, please?”

“Aye captain.” And with that she turned in a whirl of long coat and left the cabin with almost no noise. 

“Now,” Jack said, straightening his coat, “speaking of our passengers. Two of you I know, more is the pity. Two of you I am not sure I’ve had the pleasure.” He turned to Thomas. 

“Captain Jack Rackham, of the ship _Caerus_ , whose hospitality you now enjoy.” 

He held out his hand, and Thomas rose to shake it. 

“Hamilton. Thomas Hamilton.” 

Jack looked at him a moment, and James could read the curiosity there about Thomas’ refined accent and obvious status. Generally someone like him would come with more to his name than that. But Thomas didn’t offer anything further, so Jack smiled. 

“Pleasure. And the lady?” 

Abigail, who was seated in a window along one side of the cabin, looked at him a moment before answering. 

“Abigail Ashe. Daughter of former Governor of the Carolinas, Lord Peter Ashe.” 

This time Jack stood, going to her rather than waiting for her to come to him. He took her hand and made a graceful bow over it. 

“Miss Ashe, Captain Jack Rackham at your service.” 

Abigail slid from the window box, performing an efficient curtsy. Billy watched the little dance of etiquette with a slight frown. It was from a different world than theirs—or his, he suddenly realized. He seemed to be the only one in this room unable to dance that dance, at least any more. It had been too long since his boyhood in London, he didn’t remember any of the steps. 

“Well,” Jack said, turning back to the rest of the room as Abigail took her seat, looking a little weary, “Anne will announce something about your presence to the crew. But I think it will be best for you to er—stay out of their way as much as possible. I’ll have some things brought in to make you comfortable in here.” 

James rose, reaching out a hand. “Rackham.” 

Jack looked at him for a long moment. “McGraw,” he said at last, accepting the handshake. “I trust this is the start of an entirely new sort of friendship.”

With that, he turned on a heel and left the four travelers alone in the captain’s quarters, each ranged about the room and showing their weariness in their own way.

Billy stayed where he was, perched on a low stool by the cabin door, a little way apart from the others, shoulders slumped. His cool reception from Rackham and Bonny was no less than he’d expected, but reminded him of what he was headed toward. Once they were in Nassau—and now they would be headed straight there, no last minute chance to bail in Port Royal—he wouldn’t have anyone keeping him separated from the anger of those who might recognize him. Maybe death wouldn’t be so far off after all. But he wasn’t as invested in the idea of being killed any more…not at the hands of someone other than Flint. That was different. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew now that he had about three days to figure it out. 

Thomas sat straight and tall in his chair at the desk, quietly taking in the surroundings. It was the most opulent room he’d been in since…well since he’d been taken from his own home in London. This room of course was nowhere near as fine as that, but it was better than anything at the plantation. Those had contained some nice things, here and there, but most of them were shabby with age and far past their prime, mixed and matched with lower quality furniture, much of it made by the residents. It hadn’t been Bedlam, but it was still a prison. Rackham was a funny sort of fellow he thought, clearly he enjoyed the aesthetics of wealth—the port he’d served was really quite good—but in a distinctly pirate style, with the slightly too-garish colors and his odd pointed sideburns. Thomas sighed. The real world was ahead of them, and he supposed it would hold much more of the sort of things that he hadn’t seen since London, or had never seen at all, and he needed to get used to the sensation of new things in his world for the first time in ten long years. It was an equally exhilarating and exhausting prospect. 

James, whose fatigue was nowhere near to the worst he’d ever experienced, was merely contemplative. He paced slightly through the cabin, such a familiar space. This would have been his domain, once upon a time. But as deeply as he felt the familiarity, he couldn’t be sure if he really felt a connection. Would he take this back if he could? He glanced at Thomas. No, not if it cost him a single moment spent together. They’d already wasted too many. In three days they’d be back in Nassau, back home with whatever piece of Miranda they could find, and he intended to savor whatever time they had. But at the end of this journey were many familiar faces and sights, people who would recognize him and who he would have to convince all over again that he was not Flint. And there was John Silver, and James didn’t even know what it was he wanted to convince him of when the time came. 

Abigail was gazing out of the large window, across the crystal blue sea. It was one of those warm days of early fall where the sky was so clear, and the sea so still, that they ran into one another. One could almost not see where one ended and the next began, and could imagine that the blue went forever. Her curtsy and introduction had taken more out of her spirit than any of the physical exertions of the past several days. She hadn’t prepared herself for the cost of saying her father’s name, or her own, slipping back into the formalities of the life she’d known before the plantation. It had come naturally, simply because she’d never introduced herself as anyone else. But the sheer weariness that had filled her after she’d done it made her realize that it was probably time to consider whether or not Abigail Ashe was who she wanted to be when they arrived—all too soon—in Nassau town. But if she wasn’t going to be Abigail Ashe, she didn’t know where to begin deciding who else she might become. 

There were three days or ocean between the four of them and whatever Nassau was going to bring. Three days to get ready to face it. 

And not a single one knew yet if they would be ready when they reached her.


	12. Late Night Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint and Billy have a tete-a-tete, Abigail learns some things she'd rather not

Nobody enjoyed being sequestered in the captain’s quarters. Admittedly, it was a fine amount of space, and really much more comfortable than their below-deck cabin on the _Castlemain_ , yet still the confinement chafed. 

Jack was true to his word, bringing in bedding and supplies to keep them comfortable for the journey. 

“You’re lucky,” he remarked, “that little rum runner we picked you off us was a tender morsel of a prize, so the crew is sated for the evening and none too curious about my guests. Hopefully we can keep it that way.” 

But it seemed as if the sun had halved its pace, dipping toward the horizon with agonizing slowness. Each of the four watched it from the corners of their eyes, willing the day to pass. 

At last, the light in the room began to stain red as the sun sank toward twilight. Jack returned, bringing food and insisting that Thomas be ensconced in the large, carved wooden bed set into one end of the cabin. He’d brought two men in with him, who James assumed he must trust, who set up an extra hammock in one corner before moving to help lift Thomas into the bed—under James’ suspicious and watchful eye. 

Once they withdrew, leaving a couple of lighted lanterns, no one was particularly interested in eating. Abigail drew her legs up into the window alcove, all but disappearing into the little space. Thomas had fallen into a fitful sleep, with James casting him worried glances, and checking his temperature with the back of his hand every few minutes. 

Billy, meanwhile, was doing his best to be invisible again. 

Just as it hadn’t really worked back on the little sloop, it wasn’t particularly successful now either. Both of Jack’s men had cast him the same vaguely curious glances they’d given the others, but with no more spark of recognition than that. Billy imagined Jack had probably chosen two men to help him who were new, and who wouldn’t recognize Flint or Billy. They’d satiate the crew’s limited interest in the captain’s guests without being able to give too much information. Billy had tried to duck his head as they’d passed in and out, but was afraid of looking all the more suspicious, and therefore worthy of interest, by trying too hard not to be seen. 

Now he had finally abandoned his little stool in the corner, slinking along the shadowy wall to the other of the two window seats. They were divided by the large framing beams of the ship, so seated in one he couldn’t see Abigail where she was installed in the other. He could look out the window though, and see the moon beginning to rise in the east. The space was too small for him to put his legs up, but it was more comfortable than being perched on the tiny wooden seat of the stool. He began surreptitiously to stretch the kinks out of his arms, leg, and neck. He leaned his back against the wall of the alcove, and was surprised to find it slightly warm still from the heat of the day. 

He closed his eyes just for a moment (or so he thought), and he didn’t hear Flint approach him at all. Suddenly the man was just there at his side, speaking in a low voice. 

“May I?” he asked. 

Billy started up out of instinct, but soreness and tiredness prevented him from moving very quickly before Flint spoke again. 

“Relax. Just want to…talk.” 

Billy looked up at him suspiciously, but swung his legs aside anyway to make room for Flint to join him on the bench. He glanced over at Thomas, and saw that he was asleep. Abigail didn’t make a sound, so he assumed she had probably fallen asleep as well. 

“What’s up?” Billy asked finally, after a few moments of silence with Flint sitting beside him, hands folded loosely in his lap. 

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah.” He gazed at Billy, and Billy held the look. “Just trying to see if I’ve got you figured yet. You used to be quite simple to read, you know.” 

“How d’you mean?”

“Well you were easy then, just wanted to make everyone happy—”

“I meant why are you now finding that you aren’t so confident? Seemed like yesterday your mind was still pretty well made up about me.” 

“True. But I learned in rather dramatic fashion not too long ago that I am still capable of being surprised by people now and again. I figure I’d better be open to it, lest it catch me unawares as it did the last time. What you said to Rackham surprised me—and I am open to admitting it.” 

“Right…so?”

“So I still don’t know what you’re doing here, but I’m willing to give you the possibility of being a changed man, as you seem to have done me.” He paused. “Not saying I’ll be putting my life voluntarily into your hands any time soon…just that I will spend a little less time worrying about having given you a blade than I might have otherwise.” 

“I see. Well. Thanks.” Billy wasn’t really sure what to make of him. It was hardly a ringing endorsement…but it was more than he’d ever expected from Flint all the same. 

“Yes indeed. Now Billy, I’m going to offer you another piece of advice.” 

Billy’s eyebrows immediately lowered. 

“It did not escape my notice that you put yourself between Abigail and danger yesterday.”

“Yes?” Billy said, guardedly. 

“I also have not forgotten that you are the one who gave her journal to Charles Vane, with instructions that it might be helpful in Charles Town, from which I gather both that you had been in possession of it and that you had already read it.”

Billy didn’t say anything, so Flint continued. 

“It’s not a stretch for me to guess at your motivation—I remember when you two first set eyes on each other. But my advice to you is this: do not imagine that that girl is the same one you now travel alongside, any more than you are the same man you were then.”

“I—I mean I don’t—I won’t—” Billy stuttered, trying to come up with an answer that wasn’t entirely pathetic. Flint cut him off with a raised hand. 

“I don’t need your explanations. And I won’t say against anything that keeps her safe. I just wanted to be sure you know what you are dealing with. Abigail has lost her father, been imprisoned for a year, and killed a man. Whatever you think she is—I can almost guarantee you are wrong.” 

***

On the other side of the alcove, Abigail shrank into the shadowed window with burning cheeks. 

James and Billy had spoken very quietly, probably thinking she was asleep, and she hadn’t exactly meant to eavesdrop…she just couldn’t help it. She’d been deeply curious when James had walked over to speak with Billy, wondering what had passed between them in Boston that James had been willing to let Billy have a weapon. 

Then she’d heard her own name, and there was no chance of her shutting out what was said, whether she wanted to hear it or not. 

Each word said seemed to hit her like a wave she wasn’t prepared for. _Billy_ had had her journal? He’d _read_ it? She had assumed that it not being disposed of immediately after she left the ship had just been some sort of oversight, it had sat forgotten on James’ desk until Charles Vane picked it up…but that was obviously not the case. For whatever reason Billy had specifically taken it and kept it—probably nobody would ever have known if it hadn’t been necessary to use it to try and rescue James. _God_ what all had she written there? What she could remember was humiliating enough, but there were certainly things she couldn’t even recall…

She too remembered the first time she and Billy had seen each other, in the galley that first night on the warship. It was humiliating to think of how transparent her admiration for him had been in that moment, clear to James and Miranda and probably Billy and anyone else watching as well. She’d just been so struck by him—his handsome face and that one strong arm propped on the table—she hadn’t managed to cover her regard at all. 

And then James was telling Billy that he’d seen him trying to protect her. It was something she’d noticed herself, but just put down to being the smallest and most useless of the group. Clearly James thought Billy’s reasons were something more personal than that—did he think Billy…? But Billy was fairly adamant in denying any particular interest, it seemed. And then James told him about the guard she’d killed. 

All her secrets then were exposed. Last, James warned Billy that she was not what he thought. But Abigail didn’t know what James thought Billy thought, or what that possibly meant to either of them. Then James was moving out of the alcove, and Abigail quickly ducked her head and pretended to be asleep as the thoughts raced through her mind. 

She listened closely as James climbed into bed with Thomas, whispering something she couldn’t hear. A few minutes later, Billy moved off out of his alcove, blowing out the lantern and climbing into the hammock Rackham had had installed in one corner. 

Abigail waited until she was as certain as she could be that everyone else in the room was asleep before slipping out of the window seat and toward the door. She needed fresh air in her lungs, and not to be in this room with all the weight of her embarrassment pressing in on her. She needed to think. 

She opened the door as little as she could to slide through, shutting it silently behind her. She leaned back against it for a moment, taking a deep breath of night air as it whipped across the deck. 

Then she nearly jumped out of her boots as a voice directly to her right said, “Shouldn’t be out here you know.” 

Abigail whirled, eyes trying desperately to adjust to the starlight, and saw Anne Bonny seated on a stool beside the door, feet propped up. 

“Miss Bonny! I’m—I’m terribly sorry, I know you asked us to stay put, I just needed a bit of air and I thought if I staid right by the door—”

“Ain’t a safe place to wander around at night. Men get ideas, even with me keeping ’em in line.” 

Abigail nodded, guiltily, and moved back toward the door. 

“Might as well sit a minute though, since you’re out,” Anne said, stopping her, “as I’m here to keep an eye.” 

Abigail heaved a sigh of relief—as scared as she was of Anne Bonny, she was still desperately not wanting to go back into the cabin yet. “Thank you.” 

She sat herself on a large coil of rope, knees propped up under her chin. Anne Bonny was quiet, peeling an apple with a small sharp knife in her lap. 

“Are you—are you a part of this crew then, ma’am?” Abigail asked her, after a few minutes of silence had stretched between them. 

Anne looked up at her, out of the corner of her long catlike eyes. “That’s right. Me and Jack are partners, run things together.” 

“Are you a captain then as well?” Abigail was curious—she’d never even known such a thing as a woman pirate captain was possible. 

“Nah. Ain’t got the patience for captaining. I head the vanguard, get leads, pick what prizes we’ll hunt, help Jack make decisions. But when the men have something to bitch about they take it to him, which is how I like it.” 

“The men must respect you a great deal.” 

“They do. Earned that the hard way, time and again.” 

They were quiet again for a few moments. 

“How did you…how did you ever think to become one of them?” Abigail asked at last.

“Didn’t have much choice. Wanted to go where Jack went, and Jack joined a crew. So I did too. But then I learned I was good at it, can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Do you…do you know many other women like you?”

Anne laughed her low raspy laugh. “Nope, not many. Two, maybe three. Since I took over with Jack, there’s been a few more.” She paused. “Why, you thinking of going on the account?” she said it with a chuckle, but Abigail thought about it sincerely before answering. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I—I recently had reason to discover that I don’t have a fondness for blood. Or for killing. I have done what was needed…but I don’t think I would want to repeat the experience unless I had to. It seems this life is one where you must have to with some frequency.” 

“Can’t argue with that.” 

“But I am not sure, having seen what I have seen and done what I have done that I know what other options are open to me.” She hesitated, unsure of why she felt able to speak so freely to Anne the fears about Nassau that she had kept entirely to herself until now. “I was a gentleman’s daughter. And I suppose I still am. But that life is not one that I think I can go back to.” 

“You’re going to Nassau?”

“Yes.” 

“Well. You’d be surprised the life that’s possible there.” 

“What do you mean?”

Anne shifted now, tossing the core of her apple over the side of the ship and turning to face Abigail. “You come from a place where you was only allowed to be one thing. Nassau is not that place. Lots of different ways to be a woman there, and be a powerful one. Killing and fighting isn’t the only way to avoid the life of a gentleman’s daughter.” 

“How—how do you know?” It came out as a whisper. 

Anne shrugged, sticking her hands into her pockets and putting her feet up again. “I expect you’ll see what I mean. I’ll introduce you to Max. I have an idea she’d know what to do with you.” 

“Who is Max? A friend of yours?”

Anne gave a crooked smile and shook her head. “Lover,” she said matter-of-factly. Abigail was glad that she had spent the past several months with James and Thomas, so that the statement didn’t surprise her as much as it would have once upon a time in her sheltered life in London. 

“She’s the power behind the throne in Nassau. And she does it all without ever wielding a sword. Wears pretty gowns and all.” 

“Oh I…I see. I should like to meet her.” 

“You will then. I’ll see to it. Now—” Anne said, pulling her hat low over her eyes, and leaning back against the wall of the cabin in one languid movement, “you best get back inside.” 

Abigail obeyed. She retreated, again as silently as she was able, to her window seat alcove, pulling a blanket from the ones Captain Rackham had left for them. As she curled up, her mind prodded her again with the thought of Billy and James’ conversation about her. She felt another brief, sick moment of humiliation as her own words floated back to her, set down in ink on the deck of an entirely different ship all those ages ago. 

But she pushed it away, instead focusing on what Anne had said about Max, thinking of a woman who could rule over a town like Nassau. Trying to imagine what place there might be for her in such a world.


	13. Queens and Pawns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James inquires about Madi, Billy and Abigail play chess, Billy realizes he is in trouble

Thomas’ leg was getting worse. 

Though he did not complain, he wasn’t able to hide it from James, who was still faithfully checking the bandages every day, reapplying the poultice he’d bought in Boston. As he unwrapped the bandage during their second full day on the _Caerus_ , he had some choice words for the apothecary who’d sold it to him. 

“There is no reason it should be turning like this! Not if that salve was made properly—I’ve used it probably a hundred times before and never had a wound go bad on me—” he muttered, opening the little pot and sniffing suspiciously at the contents, as if he could ferret out a missing ingredient or trick. 

“James,” Thomas said, reaching out for his hand, “there’s nothing wrong with the poultice. It’s just the wound…”

“But there’s no reason for it,” James insisted. “No good reason.” 

“You mean apart from being inflicted with a half-rusted bayonet, tended to with nothing but strips of petticoat and cheap brandy for three days, and the fact that I still needed to walk on it for a dozen or more hours?” Thomas smiled, giving a weak laugh which sent him back to the pillow, panting. 

James’ mouth twisted wryly, and he reached for a glass of water from the bedside table, holding it to Thomas’ parched mouth. “Yes, apart from all that I mean. This is sorely testing my self-confidence as a caretaker. I’ve bandaged plenty of wounds and never had one resist me quite like this.” 

“Well—” Thomas began, then stopped for a moment to cough, “well, you know me, my love. I am a contrarian and I like to vex you.” 

“That you do. But try not to vex me too much more on this score—you’ve checked my ego thoroughly and kept me on my toes. From here lets focus on getting you to Nassau in one piece, so that—so that better help may be procured. Promise me?”

“I promise.” 

James waited until Rackham sauntered in, somewhere around lunchtime, to pull him aside and ask quietly about the whereabouts of Madi Scott. 

“Madi? I’d guess she’s probably in Nassau at the moment. Why do you ask?”

James frowned. “Nassau? Why?”

Jack shrugged. “She usually is around the end of the month. Meets with Ruth and Max and oversees goods exchange to the maroons. She’s taken up old Mr. Scott’s job, didn’t you know?”

James gave Jack an eloquently sarcastic look. “You do know where I’ve been the past six months don’t you?”

“Ah yes, yes of course. Imagine they didn’t get much Nassau news up there.” 

“No, not much.” 

“Well anyway, she has. Madi, I mean. From what I gather her mother is still going strong, ruling things on her end, and it seemed natural for Madi to pick up the go-between gig what with knowing all the key players and all that.” 

“But she doesn’t…she doesn’t live in Nassau then?”

“God no, her people wouldn’t stand for it. No she just comes in once every few weeks and makes sure things are running smoothly, then scampers back to that island to remind them all whose side she’s on.” 

“So there was trouble, then, with her people? After the war was ended?”

“Yes some trouble. She objected to the end, and so she put herself into an unpopular minority. I don’t think it lasted long though—she’s quite well-thought of, you know. I’m sure once she accepted that the treaty would be reality she was able to grab hold of the reins again.”

“I see,” James said. He was keenly aware of what it would have cost Madi to lose their war, as well as what standing for it in opposition to an overwhelming majority would have cost her leadership. That she had regained in after opposing John Silver meant she’d played her hand better than he had, at least, though it would not have been an easy feat. 

“In any case, she ought to be easy enough to find. Max usually puts her up, and that’s where we’ll be headed anyway.” He waved his hand, “she and Anne have one of their little _rendezvous_ planned, which puts me at loose ends for a few days. You’re welcome to come with us. In fact, I think I’d rather like to insist on it—I’m fairly certain Max had better hear about your…shall we say, resurrection from me. It’s a matter I’d like to handle as delicately and as _discreetly_ as we may, if you don’t mind.”

James nodded, not paying close attention to the rest of what Jack had said. As long as it got them to Madi quickly. He had a feeling Thomas was going to have even greater need of her help before much longer. 

And as for him, it sounded like they had some things to discuss as well. 

***

“You’ve been avoiding me.” 

Billy’s voice startled Abigail, and she thought to herself that it shouldn’t be possible for someone so large to move so quietly. 

“W-what?” she asked, unsure how to respond. Especially since she had been avoiding him all day, and successfully too, until now. 

“I said,” he repeated, pulling out the other chair at the little table and sitting across from her, “you have been avoiding me. All day.” 

She looked down, fiddling with one of the chess pieces on the board between them. “I haven’t.” 

To her chagrin, he leaned forward over the board, picking up with the game she’d begun with James before he’d had to abandon her to tend to Thomas. Billy peered over the pieces, taking stock of where everyone was. They hadn’t gotten very far—only a few pawns and knights engaged. He moved his bishop into play. 

“It’s a fairly small space we’ve been confined to. It’s not that easy to keep away from someone and not look like you’re trying. Believe me, I’ve had my share of practice at it.” He gave her a friendly smile, which just made her more flustered, her face taking on the look of concern it so often wore. “I’ve got a pretty good idea why, if you’d like to hear it.” 

Abigail from beneath her lashes, head tilted down toward the board. “Alright. If you want to tell me.” 

“You were listening—last night. When Flint came to talk to me. You heard him talk to me about you.”

Her hand froze over the pawn she was about to move, thinking rapidly. His tone was casual, unbothered. She moved her piece, capturing one of his. 

“Yes.” She admitted simply. “I was.”

“And you’re avoiding me now because you know that not only was I the cad who sent your diary to be read in the Charles Town square, I also read it myself beforehand.”   
Now she did look up at him, her dark eyes locking with his blue ones. His gaze was steady, intent. She didn’t know what he meant by bringing this up—what he hoped for her to say about it. Without looking away from her, he moved his king into corner position, trading his rook. She swallowed. There was something being offered here, whether a challenge or a treaty she wasn’t certain. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on. 

“Anyway. Just wanted to tell you I’m sorry and I hope you won’t punish me forever.” He moved his knight forward, playing right into the hands of her rook. 

“Billy, do you think that my…avoiding you is because I’m angry at you? For taking the diary?”

He looked confused. “Well…yeah?”

She smiled dryly, and shook her head—a slight motion that was almost involuntary. 

“The only one I’m truly angry at is myself. And if I harbor any resentment toward you about it, it’s that I can’t help but feel ashamed that any more people than myself have memories of my foolish naiveté. I wish…I wish you didn’t know the things I thought then.”

“Oh…Abigail—I—” he reached, almost convulsively, for her hand, but drew his back at once as if he’d been burned, holding his closed fist to his chest. He looked down, eyes squeezed tight. When he looked up again his face was tense, almost pained. “Please don’t think that I hold any judgement for the things you said then. The way you saw us…me…those words were a life raft to me. Even if I knew it wasn’t true, just the thought that…that someone like you could think it…” he trailed off with a deep breath. 

Abigail was stunned, entirely uncertain how to respond to the anguish on his face, with no idea what she had said to bring it about. She reached out, tentatively, and took his other hand in both of hers. “Billy? I—I’m sorry—” she didn’t even know what she was apologizing for, just felt suddenly desperate to wipe the look of sorrow off his face, to bring back the smile that he’d come to the table with. 

He shook his head, then looked at their clasped hands for a moment. He flexed his very slightly, where it rested between hers. 

“Don’t—” he started in a rough whisper, then cleared his throat and tried again, “don’t be sorry. I’m sorry that you…that you couldn’t stay that girl, the one who thought well of the world.” 

“I’m not.” Abigail said, squeezing his hand. “I’m not sorry to trade ignorance, even if knowledge is sometimes painful. I’m not sorry for…for the man I killed. For I am certain he would have killed one of us. I’m not sorry, in the end, to be here, rather than in my governess’s classroom in London, even if it has cost a great deal.” 

He looked up from their clasped hands and into her face. “Then I can almost be glad for the circumstances that brought me here too. That our paths would cross again.” There was enough sincere warmth to his tone that Abigail blushed, suddenly self-conscious, and drew her hands away again, rubbing her palms on her breeches nervously. 

“It’s er—it’s your turn.” She said at last. 

Billy swallowed hard, lashes lowered over his cheeks, which were also tinged with a rosy hue. 

“Checkmate,” he said. 

She hadn’t even seen him move his queen into position. 

***

Billy retreated to his hammock, heart pounding against his ribcage as if he’d just gone over the side of a prize ship that hadn’t surrendered. 

The problem was that the rush of going over the side always worked itself out in whatever skirmish and victory (or occasional defeat) ensued. Now there was no battle to face to answer the drumming march of his heart. Just a small cabin, a cramped hammock, and a swirl of ashamed emotion. 

Once again he felt the sharp boredom of being on a ship with no responsibilities to attend to. He wished he was needed to go inspect the rigging, or supervise inventory, or hell, he’d even be happy to do a bit of sail mending, normally a tedious job he’d have passed off to a new crewman. His hands felt conspicuously empty, folded in his lap as he sat curled up in the hammock. Maybe Rackham would give him something to do if he asked…but no. That would be crossing a line he had no right to cross anymore. 

His eyes drifted around the small room, falling for a moment on the small selection of books behind Jack’s desk, thinking idly of picking one up. He’d like to read, as a boy. And during his days on the _Walrus_ he’d kept a small stash of books to read when he was able, usually ashore where they men wouldn’t see—most of them were illiterate, and considered reading a snobbish pastime of the elite, men like Flint. But it had been a long time since then, and he felt too restless now to take anything up. 

His gaze landed back on Abigail, who he would not admit to himself he had been actively trying not to look at as he stared at everything but her. She was so beautiful it hurt him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. But he couldn’t keep them shut for long—they were drawn to her, inexorably, despite his best efforts and all the good reasons to stay away. 

She was still seated at the little table, looking over the chess set, frowning at the board still set with the pieces from their finished game. Her small, pale face was intent and unguarded, her hair falling as a curtain over one shoulder. She bit her lip, brow furrowed, placing his queen delicately back into its last position. It looked like she was trying to work out how he’d cornered her. He smiled, but it turned quickly into a grimace. He forced himself to turn away, facing the whitewashed wall of the cabin. 

It was becoming very clear that he was in trouble in regard to Abigail. 

Where yesterday his entire future had been a fuzzy blank space, now all he could think was that he didn’t care where he went, he simply wanted to be near her. And he couldn’t think that. Because it wasn’t going to be possible. Abigail had a real future ahead, she was gently bred and refined, she had Flint and Hamilton looking after her, she had no ties and no history in Nassau to prevent her from doing whatever she wanted. She had everything he did not. And if he let himself think about staying with her—not even at her side, or as a companion, just near her—it would only make the empty space more gaping when he had to let the thought go. 

Anything is possible in Nassau, maybe there is a way to offer her your help, a part of his mind said. But another, more ruthless side asked him how? as a wanted man who will likely be recognized within a few days on the street? You are more likely to bring her danger than protection. Leave her be. 

Billy knew it was true, but it didn’t slow the panicked argument inside his brain. He didn’t understand how this had happened, when this feeling had stolen in and wrapped itself around his heart. But he felt its grip now, a tightness in his chest that wouldn’t be bidden. 

It was that grip that had urged him to talk too freely to her about what she’d written in that diary all that time ago, to tell her what it had meant to him. God he was an embarrassing fool. But her dark eye had bored into him, commanding him to speak and he had been powerless to resist. What else would he say and do if it ever occurred to her to ask him? And what wouldn’t he give for her to ask something, anything, just for the pleasure of appeasing her?

He already knew what he would do, whether he tried to talk himself out of it or not. He would go with them into Nassau. He would go where they went as long as they let him, so that he might stay near to her and put off their inevitable parting of ways for as long as he was able. The small part of him that insisted he had his pride, and ought not to behave as a starving dog in search of scraps was shouted down by all the rest of his being that demanded he follow Abigail to the ends of the earth—or as far as she would allow him to trot along in her wake, just for the chance that she might take his hand in hers one more time. He was a fool, he knew. But he didn’t care. 

The hold was too strong, and he was helpless to fight it—even if the one holding it had no idea the power she had over him.


	14. Arrival in Nassau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group arrives in Nassau, facing introductions and re-introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this fic over the weekend (v excited about it you guys), so I'll post 2 a day this week to wrap it up!

By the time the _Caerus_ had Nassau on the horizon, Thomas had developed a full-blown fever, and James’ a full blown case of panic—though years of practice allowed him to conceal it from everyone. 

He was so consumed with his worry for Thomas, that he had no room in his mind to pay any attention to the fears which were mounting for both of his other traveling companions about what lay ahead in Nassau. Billy and Abigail both kept their doubts and worry about the uncertainty of their futures to themselves, guessing that James had enough on his mind, even if he didn’t show it. Billy wouldn’t have been able to address his concerns even if he’d been able, though Abigail had hoped that James and Thomas would bring her in on their planning before it was time to set foot on the sands of what she planned on being her new home. 

Instead, James paced the small cabin, heightening the frenetic anxieties of everyone in the room, who sat rigidly trying to look calm in their respective corners as Nassau’s shores loomed larger and larger in their view. 

They felt when the ship came to a stop and anchored, and they listened for a tense hour while crew moved about out on the deck, filling launches and leaving for shore. 

At last, Jack entered the cabin with Anne standing shadowy at his back to inform them that enough of the crew had been sent off that it was safe for them to debark. Then they ushered in two crewmen—not the same as before, James noted—with a sort of sling-chair to carry Thomas out in. 

The launch ride was as agonizingly slow for James, sitting with Thomas’ head in his lap and listening to his shallow breathing, as it was shockingly quick for Abigail and Billy, who sat quietly at either ends of the little boat watching the shore draw near. 

James was the first to jump out of the launch and into the waves breaking softly on the shore, urging the other men to hurry up and get moving. Billy leapt to comply, feeling that at least in this moment he understood what needed to be done, and knowing it might be the last time for a while that that was the case. And so it was Billy and James who shouldered either side of the sling-chair, while Jack’s crewmen were still fumbling around with the launch’s tie out. The two men met each other’s eyes as Billy reached for the second strap, James giving him one swift, approving nod. 

James didn’t see Jack’s knowing look as they helped Thomas into the chair, or his slight nod to the men, dismissing them to do whatever it is they wanted with the extra coin in their pockets that had paid for their discretion about these guests. 

Abigail gravitated toward Anne Bonny as the group spread out, hoping that the woman had not forgotten her promise to introduce her to Max. With James preoccupied and Thomas delirious with fever, she felt even more urgently the need to get her own feet under her here in Nassau, and find a place that she could occupy on her own merit. 

Anne saw the girl hovering in her wake, and took pity on her. 

“C’mon,” she said, jerking her head up the beach, “we’re all going the same direction.” 

Abigail hurried to catch up to Anne’s long strides, walking alongside her and trying to look like she belonged, while avoiding the gaze of anyone on the beach who might be trying to catch her eye. Irrationally, she wished that Billy was by her. She realized she’d gotten used to his comfortingly solid presence over these last days. But that was stupid. He had his own things to attend to now. 

They made their way, with Jack Rackham swaggering in the lead, nodding and waving to people on the street, up into the colorful little town of Nassau. Quickly, they approached what the majority of the group had once known as the Guthrie Inn, although they realized that it was Max’s now. Even Abigail recognized the long building in the middle of the street, having been brought to it by Eleanor, though the memory was clouded by fear and drugs and exhaustion. 

Inside at first glance things looked much as they ever had—though it was a little cleaner, perhaps, James thought, and the scattered groups of people drinking and eating here were much less unkempt and brutish than the crowd would once have been. 

But the real change was upstairs. Where in Eleanor’s time the space there had been utilitarian, used for excess inventory and overflow space for drinking, with the exception of her sparse office and sleeping area, the staircase now alighted into a lavishly appointed salon. Several doors led off of it, as well as a hallway down the opposite length of the inn. 

Immediately at the sight of them a young girl dressed in crisp black and white jumped up from a chair by one of the carved doors and hurried forward. 

“Captain Rackham, Miss Bonny!” The girl dropped a curtsy. “The mistress ’as been expecting you, and had your rooms both made ready. But she didn’t mention you’d have guests…” she eyed the newcomers uncertainly, “shall I prepare guest rooms for them?”

“Not right away Matilda,” Jack said, casting an eye backward over the ragged trail of bodies behind him. “Let us first determine who is going and who is staying, hmm? Is Max about? I think she’ll want to see us right away.” 

“Yes sir, I will find her sir. Please come into the sitting room.” 

The girl scurried to open one of the doors, and Jack brushed past her into it, beckoning the rest of them. 

“Alright you lot, best come get comfortable.”

Anne leaned down—Abigail suddenly realized she was actually quite tall, she hadn’t noticed before, mostly because she’d been sitting or leaning every time she’d seen her before now—and said to her in a low voice, “best stick near me. I can’t vouch for how Max is going to take seeing any of your mates again, but whatever it is don’t worry too much about it. Got nothin’ to do with you.” Abigail nodded, grateful, though the necessity of such a protection made her anxious for Uncle James and Billy. 

Inside, Jack flung himself onto a bright, silk covered chaise, tossing his boots up and throwing back his head dramatically. 

“Dear God, I had no idea what a spoiled princeling I’d become until I had to spend the past three nights in the officers’ quarters on one of those damned hammocks!” he cried. 

Anne stalked past him, installing herself on a bench under the large window and beckoning Abigail to join her. 

“Nobody here feels sorry for you Jack,” she told him as she passed. 

“I know, it’s my curse never to be truly understood,” he said with a theatrical sigh. “But it is good nonetheless to be surrounded by civility again.”

It _was_ an elegantly appointed room, Abigail thought. Everything in it was fine—but not in the insipid colors she would have been accustomed to back in London. The fabrics were bright silks and velvets, the furniture carved with birds and trees and monkeys into dark wood, and several thick, colorful carpets on the floor. There was a shelf full of books behind a large desk, and delicate porcelain figures on the mantle over the low fireplace. 

Flint and Billy came in last, moving the slowest and most cautiously with Thomas’ chair. They set him down gently on a long sofa set across from Jack’s chaise. He smiled shakily at them in thanks, but then closed his eyes again, cheeks flushed. James sat down next to him, taking his hand and whispering something low in his ear that no one else could hear. 

Billy, as was becoming his habit, found a chair in the corner of the room furthest from everyone, and perched as if ready to make a run for it at any moment. 

They all jumped at the sound of footsteps on the stair outside, except for Jack, who kept his air of utter repose with his arm flung over his eyes and said airily, “that’ll be Matilda, I believe, with something cool to drink. I could stand something, couldn’t you?”

But then the door swung open, and a woman who was decidedly not Matilda swept in. 

“It is not, and you could not. Not until I’ve heard a satisfying explanation.”

Max marched over to her desk, pulling out the tall-backed chair behind it and dropping in with an air of exasperation. 

At the sound of her voice, Jack had sat up at once, dropping his boots off the chaise and straightening his jacket guiltily. 

“Ah, Max, darling. As you see we encountered some…unexpected guests on this latest trip…the only thing to do seemed to bring them back.” 

“I _can_ see that,” Max said, looking over the assembled visitors pointedly. “How on earth did it happen?”

“Ah, that, I am afraid, I can only answer to a certain point—we were hunting the _Castlemain_ , you know that rum runner out of Boston, and…well, they were on it.” He trailed off, with a shrug. 

“They were just _on_ the ship you happened to board?” Max asked, incredulous. 

“I swear to God. You think I would make this shit up?”

Max sighed. “No, I don’t see why you would.” She turned to James. “I suppose that leaves the rest of the explanations to you then. I was told that you had been taken care of—in fact I was told you had been sent to a place I myself personally recommended. How do you come to be sitting here in my office now, not sixth months later?” 

James raised an eyebrow at the mention of her knowledge of Oglethorpe’s plantation, but decided not to inquire in favor of other more pressing matters. 

“I don’t intend to bore you with the details of our departure. Suffice to say that regardless of your recommendation, I don’t imagine that you or any of your—conspirators—truly thought that place would hold me without my having a good reason to stay—”

“—with which I believe you were provided—” 

“—with which I was provided,” he agreed, “and which I brought with me when I left. And which now requires medical attention,” he added, looking down at Thomas’ hand in his. 

Max stood, hands on her desk, face thoughtful. “This is he, then? Your lover?”

James nodded. “This is Thomas Hamilton. He was wounded, and has taken ill. And I believe that he requires aid from Madi—who I am told is staying here with you.” 

Max eyes flicked from Thomas, her face softening slightly, and James could see the gears of her mind turning at a rapid rate, considering the options. After a moment’s hesitation she nodded decisively. 

“Yes, she is here. And I believe she will help, and even be happy to see you. But I will need something from you first.” 

“And what is that?” James growled, unable to help himself. 

“I need your promise that Captain Flint has not come out of his retirement, and was left on whatever shore he was placed on. That this man in front of me, who has come seeking my help, is not going to reward my generosity by upending what I fought Captain Flint so hard to achieve here.” 

The two held each other’s eyes, Max’s face impassive, James’ edging toward a snarl. But at last he nodded. 

“You have my promise. I am here to reclaim my home and my freedom, but I have no interest in taking up any of the other trappings of Captain Flint’s time here.” 

“Good. But that is not all.” She turned her eyes to Billy. “I have not forgotten also the role that you played on the part of violence and chaos when you roamed this island freely. And unfortunately you do not have so convincing an anchor as…James…has brought with him, to buy my benefit of the doubt. I am not sure why I should believe that you will be any less trouble to me now than you were then, and your word is certainly no good with me. I was treated to your kind of hospitality then as your prisoner, and I am tempted to return my own hospitality to you in kind.” 

Billy bowed his head. “I understand,” he said, quietly. “W-what do you want from me?”

“I will trust you no further than my sight, or the sight of someone I approve to keep an eye on you, for the time being. I will accept Captain Rackham or Anne to watch over you—though I suspect they do not want you. I will also accept James’ word for you, as long as he will continue to keep you as a companion. Or I will allow you to remain on this island _in my service_ , until such a time as I am convinced that you harbor no ill will toward this place and its people. Do you accept my terms?”

“I accept.” Billy said, head still hanging. It was no worse than he’d expected. 

“Good.” Max rapped her knuckles on the top of her desk. “There is much more that I want to know about how this came about, but I appreciate the pressure of time which you are under, and so I will save those questions for later. Come, I will take you to Madi.” She moved toward the door, her royal blue gown sweeping behind her as she walked purposefully. As she reached for the handle she turned and added, “Anne, mon coeur, I will come back shortly—it looks like you too have a story here that I need to hear,” she gestured to Abigail, “And Jack…make yourself useful will you and go tell Matilda to ready rooms? It looks like we’ll have a full house tonight.” 

***

James’ anxiety mounted as he helped Thomas make one more short, limping walk across the salon and into the next suite of rooms. Although he was conscious enough to make an effort to help, his head rolled slightly, and his skin was hot and dry. 

Madi was seated in an armchair in the sitting room behind the second door off the landing, hands clasped regally in her lap. Her face broke into a bright smile when she saw James. She stood as he lowered Thomas onto the sofa, and stepped forward as soon as he was positioned, pulling him into a hug. 

James hugged her back, arms tight around her, and he could feel that she had begun to weep into the shoulder of his shirt. They drew apart, but he kept his hands on her shoulders, a smile on his face much softer than anything she had witnessed before. 

“So it’s true then, that you are not dead,” Madi said. 

James grinned. “Was it a question?”

“I believed John because I wanted to believe him, not because my judgement agreed that it was true. I am very glad to learn that I was right to choose to believe.” 

“Me too.” James agreed, voice gruff. “Better for me, certainly.”

Madi smiled. “This is true. But what are you doing here? I had come to think that I would never know if you were alive or dead, because either way you were in a place beyond reaching.”

James made a small scoffing noise through his nose. “John Silver is clever, I’ll give you that. And he got the better of me once. But let’s not give him too much credit—I left that place when I felt the time was right for it, and I’ve come back because this is where my home is.” She shot him an odd look that he couldn’t read at the mention of Silver’s name. But he continued.

“Anyway I intend to reclaim that home. Even if most of it burned.” 

Madi bowed her head in understanding, and in a moment of painful recollection of having been present when the home in question burned—present and barely surviving. 

“I see. But then why have you come to see me? I am glad to know that you are alive and well, but Max said that you had particular need of me…”

“It’s Thomas,” James said, nodding his head over at the still figure on the sofa. “He took a bayonet to the thigh, and the wound is starting to go bad…I hoped…I hoped you might be able to treat him with whatever you used on...John.” 

Madi looked over at Thomas, eyes sharp. 

“This is Thomas Hamilton?” she asked. 

“It is.” 

“Alright. Let me see what I can do.”


	15. Put to Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max offers Abigail (and Billy) a chance to work for her, James and Madi take Thomas back to the maroon island

After Max exited with James and Thomas, and Jack Rackham slunk off presumably to attend to accommodations, there was a silence that filled the room. It was a silence rife with worry and hope and uncertainty, stretched thin between Abigail and Billy. Anne found it oppressive. Having spent much of her adult life working in shadows and attending to hidden things, she was unfortunately attuned to all of the words that were being left unsaid in this room. She wished Max would come back and drag them all into the light. It was what she was especially good at. 

Eventually she excused herself—to go help Max she said aloud, and so that she could return only when Max was ready to help her, she thought privately. 

So she left Billy and Abigail, both sitting quietly in their doubts. 

The tension finally drove Abigail out of her seat, and she began to pace the room distractedly. Billy, who was better at pushing down his worries and fears, stayed in his place, but watched her. When she’d made enough laps of the space to look twice at every object in the room, she came back to stand a few feet from Billy, looking out the window and down onto the street. He followed her gaze, wondering what it was that she saw there. 

The street was bustling as always, filled with shopkeepers and shoppers, especially on this block where the inn drew people as the center of commerce and conversation. 

Abigail’s eyes roved over everything with interest. The colors were so bright here; she remembered that from her brief glimpses of it before. Buildings were painted brilliant shades of green and pink and yellow, and a sky that somehow seemed much bluer than any she’d seen covered over it all. 

“Where does that go?” she asked Billy, curious. 

“What?” 

“The bridge, to the building across the street.” She pointed to the little bridge, which connected the terrace of a room next door to one in the elaborate building directly across. 

“Oh that, it goes over into the brothel.” 

“Oh.” Abigail said in a small voice, pretending not to be shocked. She’d never seen a real brothel before—she looked closer, trying to see if there were any outward signs that she could have noticed and picked it out of all the other shopfronts on the street. Then she spotted the entrance to the place, where a woman in a robe that was entirely open at the top reclined on a swinging chair. She looked away hurriedly. 

“Why—er—why are they connected?” she asked, flustered. 

“I expect Eleanor might have done it.” Billy answered, not looking out the window, but still surveying the interior of the room disinterestedly, one knee propped up on the chair. “Back when she’d go visit Max over there.”

“Max lived in…on the other side?”

“S’right. She’s a smart woman. Worked until she owned the place, then the whole street. Should’ve seen this place before. Over there too,” he jerked his head in the direction of the whorehouse, “it was a different place inside after she took it over.” 

Abigail’s entire body stiffened.

“I—inside?” she asked, mortified as the word came out as a squeak. 

Billy’s eyes snapped toward her, face horrified. 

“I mean, I had to go in, for business—” they both flinched, “—ship business! not…not whoring—er—brothel business—I mean I went in but I never went in, not like that—Jesus…” he trailed off, looking straight ahead at the wall, cheeks blushing furiously to match the red across Abigail’s face. 

They were spared any further conversation along that line by the reappearance of Max and Anne, who entered at that moment. They gave each other a furtive look at the expression on the two newcomers’ faces, but Max squeezed Anne’s hand gently, and neither said anything about it. 

“Allons-y.” Max said, beckoning them. “I have asked Matilda to set us some tea.” 

Abigail came forward, face set, to take a seat in one of the silk covered chairs set in a conversational grouping by the fire. But Billy hovered, awkward, until Max shot at him, “I mean you too, dépêchez-vous.”

He complied at once, seating himself as delicately as he was able in the spindly chair. The table was almost not tall enough for his legs to fit under, with the result that he had to stretch them slightly in front of him, accidentally kicking Abigail under the table. Her face flamed up again, pink to the tips of her ears, but she didn’t look at him. 

Matilda entered with a silver tea set on a tray, followed by two more girls in black and white uniforms. They worked in tandem, setting the table in front of the four with startling efficiency, so that in almost a blink of an eye the tea service was laid in front of them, and Max was pouring. 

Abigail accepted her teacup and plate of fruit and cake blindly, moving through the motions of this familiar ritual without thinking—although it had been well over a year since she had last sat down to a proper tea. Billy watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to do as she did, though with slightly less grace. It had been many more years since his last proper tea—he could almost remember his mother letting him sit at the table with her friends one afternoon when he was about eight, letting him eat a bit of cake and asking how he liked his tea. Her friends had cooed over him, calling him a gentleman, and he’d been terribly proud…

“Well. Here we are.” Max’s voice cut through the hazy fog of memory, and he realized he’d been looking off into space. He snapped his eyes back down to the teacup in his hand. Max raised an eyebrow, which he ignored. “I’m pleased to see that your manners are better than expected, that will make things easier.” Billy looked up at her, confused, and she gave a coy smile. 

“Let me begin at the beginning. Abigail,” she said, turning to the girl. “I am Max, as you already know. Anne has told me that you are interested in…finding something useful to do, here in Nassau. Is this true?”

Abigail inclined her head. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. For it just so happens that I have need of help, and that help requires someone well-bred, who may enter into society here in the very near future without my having to train her how to speak to people of status.”

Abigail didn’t say anything, merely nodded, keeping her large, dark eyes fixed on Max’s face as she spoke. Max went on. 

“However, the help that I need is spy work—it requires deceit and secrecy, and because you are well-bred I wonder if that will not be entirely distasteful to you. I would be happy, instead, simply to introduce you into society here so that you may take up life as you have probably known it.” She watched Abigail’s face closely, her dark-lined eyes keen. “Work helping in the church perhaps? Or I could even see you situated in Boston, with a family of good quality, which might be more familiar and therefore more appealing to you. I would do this without requiring anything from you, for it would not be difficult to do. You need not stay in Nassau and dirty your hands, if you are thinking that is the only option.”

Abigail has been looking down at the teacup in her hands, but Billy saw that as Max spoke, her chin had started to jut forward, set in that determined look he’d come to know. As Max finished, Abigail set down her teacup in its saucer, placing both hands on the table, and drawing herself up. 

“I am not as fragile as you suggest ma’am, and I have no fear of dirtying my hands here, for there is blood already on them. I was told that you might be able to present me with a way not to return to life as I once lived it. I assume that this offer is a test, and that if I were tempted by it I would have proven myself unfit material for the task you would set before me. But test or not, I want none of it. The days where I expected and wanted nothing but an entrance into society and advantageous marriage are long behind me. I believed that Nassau was a place where a woman may leave those things behind, as it seems that you both have. I hope that you are able to suggest to me another alternative to the ones you have just mentioned.”

Max’s mouth curved slowly, a satisfied smile spreading over her face, and she cocked her head taking in Abigail’s expression. She was quite a sight when she was angry, dark head high and eyes blazing. 

“You are right,” Max said, turning to cover Anne’s hand on the table top with her own, “I think that this is going to be a happy partnership indeed.” 

Abigail’s expression wavered, looking between them. She could not interpret the substance of the exchange between them, but she understood the love in it—she had seen it pass countless times between James and Thomas, the deep affection and understanding between two people that rendered words unnecessary. 

Max squeezed Anne’s hand, and then turned back toward Abigail, tone now businesslike. “So. You are correct in spotting my test, which you have passed easily. Though you should know that had you failed, all that would have happened is that I would have done exactly what I offered.” She paused, brow arching, “but I think, perhaps, I am not sure whose loss would have been greater—mine or yours.

Now let me tell you what I need. You know, I think, that I…quietly help to run things here in Nassau, on behalf of the new Governor and his wife?” 

Abigail nodded. 

“It is an arrangement which was carefully laid and which has worked wonderfully, though of course not without its challenges. One of those challenges, I have been informed, is currently on a ship making its way here.” 

She paused, pouring more tea into Billy’s empty teacup, which he took, sheepishly. 

“There is a man coming here who has a good deal of business in the sugar trade, including a small amount here on the island. He will have heard of the new appointment of the governor—his visit is supposedly a social one to greet Mr. Featherstone. But he is also someone who has caused not a small amount of trouble for our other business partners in Boston, and I believe he may also have ulterior motives in sniffing around here. I want to know what they are—if he intends to stay here and increase his investment in Nassau, if he is suspicious of the governor, and so forth.”

“And…and you think that I might be able to find out?” Abigail asked, voice thick with doubt. 

Max nodded. “I think with instruction you may be the perfect tool for this particular job. The man is from London, he thinks himself a gentleman, but is eager to prove it by mixing with whatever society he can. You are a gentleman’s daughter—your pedigree as the daughter of the late Lord Ashe is much better than any background that I could concoct for one of my girls. He will want to meet you, and to impress you, and so I think he will say more to you than he will to anyone from Nassau.”

“I see.”

“The Governor and his wife will be throwing a ball in this man—Mr. Finch’s—honor. I want you to go, to speak with him, to flatter him, and to mine whatever it is you can from him about his plans regarding Nassau. Do you understand?”

“Yes…yes I think so.” Her voice was steady, though her brow was furrowed. 

Max smiled. “Don’t worry. We have a few days between now and then in which I can prepare you. It will help that you already know how to make your way in this type of society, and I need only teach you how to pull secrets from men’s heads—which is much easier than you will imagine possible, once you know how. There is one more thing, however. It would not do for you to go unattended and unchaperoned. The explanations and story for what brought you to the island would become much too complicated.” 

“I don’t understand?”

Max turned now to Billy, who had been meticulously studying the tablecloth. “This is why you are here. You remember that the terms of your stay on this island are that you are in my service, yes?” 

He nodded, still looking at the teacup. 

“Good. This will be the first task you perform for me. I will be sending you to watch over Abigail while she does this, and you will provide her with a reasonable excuse for her presence there as her husband.” 

Abigail and Billy both looked at her with stunned looks, Abigail’s blush returning instantly. 

Max looked between them, coolly. “This will not be a problem? There is not another easy solution which I can put in place within this handful of days—and I do not want to expend the resources to find an alternative when I have a simple answer here and at loose ends.”

“Yes ma’am,” Abigail said, voice high. 

Billy nodded, face very blank. 

“Bien. Your name—before you were Billy Bones, what was it?” Max asked him. 

“William—” he cleared his throat, “William Manderley.” 

She nodded. “That will do.” She turned to Abigail. “From this moment, you will call him William, you understand? Make it a habit so that you do not slip when the story matters.”

Abigail nodded, eyes on the ceiling. 

“William,” she said, and her voice came out as a half whisper, as if she were tasting the name on her lips. Against every effort of detachment, the sound of it sent a small shiver up Billy’s spine. 

“Very good. So, Mr. and Mrs. Manderley—we have not a great deal of time, three nights perhaps, in which to prepare you. And yet—” she broke off, looking at Anne with a small smile, “and yet it has been a long day, and I find that I am not eager to start tonight. I believe that your traveling companions will likely find it necessary to depart very soon—and you will want to say your goodbyes, as well as explain to Cap—to James,” she corrected herself, “what it is you are going to do in his absence. He will not be pleased. That is fine. After that, Matilda will show you to your rooms, which she has readied for you on the hall.”

She stood up from the table, reaching a hand out to stroke Anne’s red head with easy affection. 

“We will begin our work in the morning.”

***

She was right that James was not pleased to find Abigail having taken up spy-work in the brief hours since he’d left her alone with Max. He’d grumbled something to that effect, about that woman and her scheming. But even his grumbling had only received half his attention, as Max was correct in her prediction that he and Thomas were going to depart with Madi that very evening. 

Madi had only needed a brief glance at Thomas’ leg to confirm what James already knew—that it was getting worse, and needed help as soon as possible. She didn’t have what they would need for it, and as she had completed her business on Nassau that morning, she sent word to her men to have her ship prepared to head for home at once. 

Having Thomas’ danger confirmed had thrown James’ mind into an agony of fear, so he’d had very little room to pay attention to anything else. Even Abigail’s startling announcement that she was going to spend his time away doing something so dangerous had only momentarily parted the overwhelming cloud of his worry. After all, Billy would watch over her, he was sure of that. And Max, much as he hated to admit it, knew what she was doing. 

So it was in a haze that they made their travel preparations—he had very few to make, other than moving Thomas—and it felt both that it was the work of a few minutes and yet somehow the span of several years before they were standing on the deck of a nimble little cutter, heading out of Nassau harbor. 

He’d fussed enough over getting Thomas situated that Madi had finally told him that she was going to assign one of her men to watch over him, and that she was ordering him to get some fresh air. He’d complied, finding it easier to obey the order than to continue to fret over Thomas, who had slipped into a fitful sleep, when there was nothing more to do but bother him. 

He sighed deeply, hands on the railing, taking in several deep gulps of the night air. Unlike Billy and Abigail, he’d hardly been on deck during the past few days of their sea voyaging. The reasons had been twofold—he had, of course, wanted to stay near to Thomas. But he had also not known how he would stand on the deck of a ship that was not his own. It was easier than he’d expected, he realized with a little sadness as the stars winked down at him. He did not feel what he had thought he would with the ocean spread out ahead of him. 

Madi came up to stand beside him, quiet and poised as ever. They stood shoulder to shoulder for a few minutes, letting the cool night air blow over them. And James began to think about what lay ahead, apart from just saving grace for Thomas. 

“Is—is he there? Back at camp?”

Madi gave him a startled look. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“John was back at the tavern. Max puts him up in a room there, at the end of the hall.” 

James frowned. “But then you aren’t…?”

She shook her head, hugging her shawl around her tighter. 

“What happened?”

Madi laughed slightly. “Do you really have to ask?”

“Because of our war? Because he ended it?”

“Yes. Though not perhaps exactly the way you mean. I did go back to him. After it was over, and you were gone, and the treaty signed. I tried to understand why he did it. And he tried to understand why I could not understand.” 

James sighed, heavily. “I’m sorry.” 

“It was not your fault. He chose for both of us.” 

They were silent a moment, remembering. 

“It hurt him, I think,” Madi said, “to know that although I loved him, I would still have died for the war and for my people. And I think it hurt him that you were going to do the same.” 

“I don’t think he’d ever loved anyone like that…before. He did what he thought was best for us. Though for you and I, the best for us would have been seeing our cause prevail even at the cost of our lives. For him I think he could never understand that some things are worth dying for. The best thing in his mind was always first to survive.” 

“Yes.” 

“So why didn’t it work? Going back and forgiving him?”

“Because in the end he would not be forgiven. He is haunted by the death of our war, the loss of you, I think. And he would not—could not begin again. I could not wait for him to be ready—my people needed me.”

“And he wouldn’t return with you?”

She shook her head. “He said that he did not understand why it was not enough for me, to matter just to one person. He wanted to know why after all that we had sacrificed, I needed to return to living my life for my people. But he refused to see his own hypocrisy. Because if it really was enough to be everything to just one person, he would have come with me, and not remained in Nassau—haunted by the ghosts of men who fought and died for him and all those who would have done so.”

“I…I see.” 

“I love him still. But I cannot stand still and watch him trying to find that mattering at the bottom of a bottle, not when there is work to be done and people who need me. I hope one day he will make peace with himself. There will always be a place for him beside me if he does, for I cannot imagine loving another. But if he does not…I am still my people’s queen.” 

James reached out to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as they both continued to look forward, out over the sea. She leaned into him. She knew he understood.


	16. Lessons and Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail and Billy prepare for their work, James and Madi discuss John Silver

“Come out, Abigail, and let us see—it cannot be that bad!” Max called from the other side of the carved wooden screen. 

Abigail looked down at the gown and bit her lip. It was one of Max’s—they were trying to outfit her for dinner and the ball at the Governor’s house, and she’d been trying on dresses to be adjusted for her for the better part of the morning. The fit wasn’t too bad, as she and Max were of a height, but Abigail’s slender figure left something to be desired in the gowns tailored for Max’s curves. 

She stepped out from around the screen, into the sitting room. “It…it’s not terrible,” she said, hopefully. 

“Yes it is.” Jack said. He was once again sprawled on one of the chaise lounges, with a newspaper in hand, indolently smoking a cigarette. So far he had yet to read any of the newspaper, as he’d been occupied in offering his opinion on each of Abigail’s gowns. 

“What exactly are you still doing here?” Max asked him, pointedly, from the other chaise. She sat at one end with Anne’s head in her lap, fingers running idly through her hair. 

“I’m—I’m _helping_!” Jack said, affronted. “Was there something else you had in mind? Polishing shoes perhaps, or fetching your letters? Hmm?”

Max rolled her eyes, and Anne didn’t open her eyes but said lazily, “Jesus, Jack.”

“I’ll have you all know I have impeccable taste, and you’re lucky to have me here.” He said, sinking back to the chaise sullenly. “That one’s awful. Just awful. Take it off and try another.” 

Abigail looked hesitantly at Max, who sighed. “He is right—unfortunately.” She cut her eyes at Jack, who smirked. “Try another.” 

Abigail went back behind the screen, looking miserably at the pile of silks, taffetas, damasks, and moires. This may not be the most humiliating thing that she’d ever done, but she was hard pressed to think of another. 

On the other side of the screen, Max said to Billy—no, William—

“Since Jack is here, we should also take the opportunity for you to practice dancing.” 

“Max, darling,” Jack drawled, “I’m sure William is a very handsome man, but I don’t know if I’m the _best_ partner available in the room…”

“Hush, you know perfectly well I mean for you to show him the man’s steps.” 

“I don’t know any.” 

“Liar,” came Anne’s low rasp. 

“I’m not—” Jack began, 

“—we both know you secretly practice your minuet every chance you get—”

Jack made an articulate noise of outrage. “I—how dare—”

“I don’t need it.” Billy’s voice cut across their bickering. 

“What do you mean?” Max asked after a moment’s pause. 

“I don’t need dancing lessons. I’ll be fine.” 

“William…”she started, slowly, “I’m sure that you’d rather not, but there will be a good deal of dancing, as it is a ball…”

“I know. I’m fine.” His tone was decisive, and Abigail could almost feel him and Max staring each other down on the other side of the screen. 

“Well, if you insist,” she finally said, airily, though Abigail could also hear the undertone of annoyance. “Perhaps it will make Mr. Finch more sympathetic to Abigail when everyone is remarking on her husband making a fool of himself…”

Abigail bit her cheek, and pulled another dress off the pile. 

Three days of this could not go by fast enough. 

***

By the end of the first full day in the maroon camp, Thomas’ fever had already broken, and he was sleeping peacefully for the first time in days. 

“You’re a miracle worker,” James said in a low voice to Madi, as she handed him a mug of tea. 

She gave a small smile. “You mean Vea is a miracle worker—I will pass on the compliment. Though I am here to see to a true miracle, and to try and get you to eat something.” 

“Hmm?” James asked, looking up from Thomas’ face uncomprehendingly. He’d been at the bedside since they’d arrived the night before and arranged him there, and his wits were slowed by a long night of wakefulness and worry. 

But the worry was disappearing as color returned to Thomas’ face. The lines of pain that had twisted it the day before had been smoothed, and the hand that James held was no longer clammy and chilled. 

“I said you need to eat something. I was hoping that since his fever had broken you would let me pry you away for a few minutes so that we might take care of you.”

“Oh…yes. I—I suppose I can’t remember when I ate last.” 

“Good, come here.” She saw him falter, looking back down at Thomas with reluctance, “just here to the table. I won’t take you out of his sight.” 

James sighed, releasing Thomas’ hand down to the bed, and followed her to the scrubbed wooden table where she’d pulled out a chair. He sat down, rubbing his face with both hands. 

“He’s going to be fine. He is already better,” she said, “the infection is receding already.”

“Thank you.” James said, letting the tension flow out of his tired body for the moment. “Thank you.” 

“You know,” Madi said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye as she uncovered a tray of various bread, fruit, and meat, putting things on a plate for him, “what I said about John—about him refusing to begin again—it was true for me. I don’t know that it would be true for you.” 

James eyed her warily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean of all the ghosts who haunt him, I believe it is yours who speaks loudest in his ear. If you were to return, that ghost’s voice would be gone. I think things might be very different for him then.” 

He frowned. “But he…if he could not let go, even for you…I don’t see how I could make a difference.”

She shrugged. “I am just telling you what I suspect.” 

“But he…he chose you.” James said at last. “He chose all of this for you.” 

Madi turned to face him squarely. “I think you and I both know it was more complicated than that.” She placed the plate of food in front of him. “Eat. I’ll be back later with more.” 

And she exited the little hut, leaving only her words to linger, and James staring into the air. 

Down on his mat, Thomas cracked an eye, and watched James’ face. Then he closed it again. He had some long thinking to do before they were to leave this island. 

***

It was a long afternoon of fabric and fittings and seamstresses for both Billy and Abigail, for of course once a dress was settled on which could be adjusted to suit her, he needed to be outfitted as well. 

Finally, Rackham had released him, and Billy had avoided Max and Anne when he saw them, making their way out of the tavern and into the street somewhere. 

He opened the door to Max’s sitting room quietly, sliding in, thinking of her bookshelf and that he’d like nothing more than just to sit and not be bothered by anyone for an hour or so. 

But the room wasn’t unoccupied as he’d thought. Abigail looked up as he closed the door behind him, and although he immediately felt bashful, he couldn’t very well turn and leave. He wavered there, forgetting whatever plan he’d had for his afternoon. But Abigail smiled. 

“Please tell me that you haven’t got a needle or thread anywhere on you, and I’ll be the happiest girl in the world.”

“Oh…hah. Right.” He said, awkwardly, “I know what you mean.” 

“I’ve only just escaped,” she added. She was sitting in the bench by the window again, her knees up with a book propped open on them. She was back in her shirt and breeches, but barefoot. 

“Me too.” He moved into the room hesitantly, not sure if he should sit near her or leave her be. Abigail drew her feet in closer, making a space for him to sit on the bench next to her, and he was drawn to it as if by magnetic force before he could think not to. He sat stiffly, darting a glance at her, and then immediately away. 

“They uh…they found something for you to wear then?” 

“Oh yes,” she replied, wearily, “my costume is all in order. Look—I’ve even got a wedding ring.” She held out her hand, showing him the ring, a dark red ruby surrounded by a circle of small, perfectly even pearls. 

Billy’s mouth twisted. “I see. Mr. Manderley must have been quite the catch in this story.” 

He tried to say it lightly, as a joke, but it came out with a strong hint of bitterness even in his own ears. 

As pleased as he had been, at first, for another day, another few days, maybe another week by Abigail’s side, he was finding the part he must play hard to bear. He wanted—longed—to pretend. To play her husband. But he also wanted too badly for it not to be pretend, and so the playacting caused a knife somewhere between his ribs each time she called him William. It cut too close to the bone, and he was afraid that if he let himself forget that it was a game, his heart would not mend at the end of it, when Abigail was done playing. The William Manderley of Max’s creation was a man actually worthy of the part—wealthy, a gentleman, her equal. Someone who would express his love with a ring set with jewels. 

Abigail heard the bitterness, but didn’t perceive its cause, afraid she’d seemed too eager about their pretend marriage. God, he must think her such a child—pleased about frivolities like rings and dresses. She drew her hand back, hiding it under the book and looked away. She wanted to tell him, or to ask him—something. She wasn’t sure what.

After the silence had stretched out thin between them though, she couldn’t help herself. 

“William—” she began, and he looked up at her, the tight, strained expression on his face halting whatever she had been going to say. She fumbled for something else. “Er—are you sure you don’t want me to help you practice your dancing? Max needn’t have been so harsh, it’s really not so difficult and I don’t think you’ll look foolish…”

“Oh for pity’s sake,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He stood up and held out his hand. “Come on.” 

“What?” she asked, but rose anyway, placing her hand in his without hesitation. 

“The minuet. One, two, three…” he counted off with his foot, tapping, and then slid into the steps of the first form. Abigail allowed him to lead her through them, astonished as he moved gracefully, turning around her in the middle of the sitting room floor and reciting the movements to her as they went through each one. 

Her look of surprised confusion soon turned into a grin. He’d been holding out on them. 

“Sarabande,” he said, after they’d run through the minuet. Next was the rigaudon, and then a courante. Each dance he moved around her as if he weighed nothing on his feet, turning her lightly, and somehow even bending under her arced arms with grace when the turns came for him to go beneath their linked hands. 

Last, he led her into the dainty steps of an allemande, a dance which required them to turn around each other in a complicated series of spins, linked hands, and arched arms, twisting around one another in a tighter and tighter knot. They ended in the final position, both facing the same direction, with her back to him and their clasped hands on either side. 

Abigail, a little breathless from the final series of hops and twirls, looked up at him over her shoulder. Billy’s color was high, and he had an easy, sideways grin on his face. It faded a little as their eyes met, and he inclined his face ever so slightly toward hers, until he was resting his forehead on her dark hair, and she could feel his breath, quick and ragged against her ear. Abigail leaned back, relaxing out of her dancing frame, her body softening against his, savoring the comforting warmth of him against her back. Several heartbeats ticked by, and she could feel them all pounding against her shoulder. Abigail turned her head further, tilting her face up toward his, and her lips parted…

“That was very good,” came Max’s voice from behind them. 

They sprang apart, spinning toward the door. Max stood in the frame, a small, knowing smile curving her mouth. 

“Where did you learn to dance? I have a feeling that was not a skill acquired on board the _Walrus_ ,” she said dryly. 

“Oh um…my mum taught me.” He said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, abashed. “I had three older sisters at home before I—before I went to sea. My mum made me learn so that they could practice with me.” 

“Then they were good teachers. But you must have been a good student, not everyone is so light on their feet.” She looked at him a moment longer, measuringly, then turned to Abigail. “Abigail, you are needed in your room.” And with that she turned, leaving the door open as she strode down the hallway. 

Abigail looked at Billy. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Abruptly he nodded, making a small, succinct bow as one would give a partner at the end of a dance, then fled the room—leaving her to wonder what on earth had just occurred.


	17. The Wise Man Builds His House Upon the Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has his say, Billy and Abigail meet the Featherstones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting REAL guys. I almost want to draw it out more and savor it...but I'm going on vacation this weekend and have terrible delayed gratification skills so I'm going to post the last two chapters tomorrow before I leave!

Three more days passed in the little hut, with Thomas growing stronger and more himself with each passing one. James knew the morning that Thomas was awake before Vea arrived with her bag of bandages and medicines, and teased her about the healthfulness of rising with the sun, that it was time for them to be heading for home. 

Thomas knew it too, and after Vea left the hut, he patted the bed next to him and gestured for James to come sit. 

“I imagine we will be returning to Nassau soon?” he asked, as James scooched in beside him. 

“It seems our friends have done well by you—I think the danger has passed. It’s time we be on our way.” 

Thomas nodded, solemnly. “Time to meet our destiny. Though I think I would be less quick to say that there won’t be any danger in it, at least for you my dearest one.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you still have one feat ahead of you to conquer before we can really call our little journey into happily ever after a success.” He looked at James, expression serious. “When we get to Nassau, you can’t put it off any longer—you must go directly back to the tavern and speak to John.” 

James squirmed at the unexpected pronouncement, fidgeting with one of the rings on his fingers, until Thomas reached out and took the hand in his. 

“Madi was right last night—” James arched an eyebrow at the statement, but Thomas ignored it, “you cannot predict how he will react to you from how he has treated anyone else. You are not anyone else. If the wound he suffers from the most now was one inflicted by you…well, you owe it to him to see if you cannot also heal it.”

“James looked down at their clasped hands, face furrowed in thought. “And if I wasn’t the one who inflicted the wound, but merely a weapon used by his own hand to do it?” 

Thomas gave a wry half-smile. “Well then the metaphor has twisted away from me, and I am not up to my usual speed and lack the desire to chase it down again. But suffice to say, I think that you must talk to him, and see what you can do.” 

“I just…I don’t know. I don’t know…what we were—” his voice broke a little, as he made aloud the confession that he’d been keeping locked away. 

Thomas squeezed his hand. “My love, I don’t pretend to know what you meant to one another then. I don’t pretend to know what you may mean to one another in the future. But here is what I do know—” he put his hand under James’ chin, tilting his face so that he could look into his eyes, “I know that you and I are bedrock. Whatever comes today, tomorrow, and all the days after I will be with you and I love you. A foundation such as we have, nothing built on it can shake it. No matter what we add to our lives from here, this remains. I therefore think that should be brave and bold and try building whatever wild new things occur to us, and trust that even if some of them fall, nothing is truly lost.”

James eyes welled with tears, two of which had just enough time to spill over his freckled cheeks before his lips met Thomas’, and they were lost in the press of their kisses. James reached his arms around Thomas’ neck, and Thomas pulled him in closer and closer, until an unfortunate twist of his freshly-healing leg broke them apart with a startled cry and James had to extricate himself. 

Then instead they lay side by side, shoulders touching as they looked up at the bamboo ceiling of the hut, and laughed. 

They laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks again, and both of their hearts were full to bursting, because laughing together was the very best thing next to making love—and whatever else happened there was a whole future stretched before them filled to the brim with both. 

***

The same three days passed at an entirely different rate for the inhabitants of Nassau tavern—the days so full that they felt much longer than the number of hours allotted them. 

After wardrobes were complete, there had still been a full slate of preparations to be made before the arrival of Mr. Finch. Max and Anne worked with Abigail, helping her to understand the kind of finesse one must use to pull secrets out of a man without him realizing he’d lost them. Meanwhile Jack taught Billy everything he could about sugar production in the islands, so that he could speak knowledgably about his supposed field of interest if asked. Jack pretended he didn’t enjoy the task, though he secretly found the whole thing desperately interesting. Billy genuinely didn’t enjoy it, but he was an apt student anyway. 

There was no time to slow the pace either, as late on the third day Max received word that Mr. Finch’s ship had been spotted and would be in harbor by nightfall as anticipated. The dinner and dancing to welcome him would happen the next evening, leaving them without an hour to spare. 

Max bade them to go to bed early that night, so that they’d be fresh and ready when the morning came. It was only partially successful. Abigail didn’t know if Billy had gotten to take advantage of the extra hours of rest, but she’d tossed and turned in her bed until late out of worry and anticipation. 

Still, it seemed as though excitement was going to carry her through, because after a slightly bleary-eyed start to the day she was now feeling as alert and alive as she ever had.  
It had startled her a little when she realized that Max wouldn’t be joining them in the carriage ride to the Governor’s country house, or for the introductions to Governor Featherstone and his wife. 

“I try not to make unnecessarily showy trips there, to help them maintain their image and control.” Max explained, as they stood on the steps of the tavern watching the trunks get loaded in. “But if you need anything, find a woman named Eme. She is in the role there of Mrs. Featherstone’s personal secretary, but she serves as a less visible go-between and can get word to me if anything goes awry.”

Then Max had turned to Abigail, sweeping her into a hug. “Good luck,” she whispered. And before Abigail knew it, a footman was offering her his hand to help her up into the open carriage next to Billy. 

He gave her a vague smile, but seemed distracted. He was scanning the street, she realized with a little spark of fear. He was worried someone here might recognize him—possibly someone who would wish to hurt him. The thought made Abigail look around too, at the faces passing by them, although it was irrational since she wouldn’t have known who would be familiar with Billy even if she did see them. But she heaved a sigh of relief when the driver snapped his riding crop, and the pair of horses lurched onto the road out of town. 

It was a clear, perfect day. Abigail was awed by the beauty of the island, realizing how little she had seen when she was here—just a dungeon and the tavern really, she thought with a little laugh, not necessarily the best it had to offer. But now they were outside of Nassau town, heading inland through emerald green scrub and over white sand. The day promised to be quite hot, but right now the morning sun felt like a caress over her face. 

Too quickly for her liking, the ride was over. The carriage turned a bend in the road, and opened onto a palm lined drive toward a sweeping estate—the Governor of Nassau’s country home. It was much grander than the official Governor’s residence in Nassau proper, which Abigail supposed had been part of the appeal of moving most of his business and social occasions to this house, further from the press of the town.

As they turned in the circle of the driveway, Abigail saw that they were awaited by a party of people standing ready to greet them. 

A handful of them were clearly servants, all in uniform. The well-dressed couple Abigail assumed must be Governor and Mrs. Featherstone themselves. As they pulled near she was certain from Max’s description that the woman at least was Mrs. Featherstone—she’d blushed when Max had described the lady by her… _décolletage_ …but Abigail had to admit it was unmistakable. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Manderley!” cried the man, affably, as they pulled to a halt. Mrs. Featherstone gestured serenely for two of the waiting servants to help with luggage, as the Governor came forward to greet them, arms spread wide. 

Billy descended from the carriage with the same unexpected grace he’d shown in his dancing, turning to offer an arm to Abigail who climbed down in his wake. His face had lost the distracted, absent look it had had during their ride, but she didn’t know if it was simply good acting or if he had shaken whatever fog had been hanging over him.  
“Mrs. Manderley, please allow me!” the Governor exclaimed, offering her his crooked elbow, and grinning at Billy, “assuming you don’t mind of course, Mr. Manderley?”

Billy bowed, “Governor, it is a pleasure to meet again.”

“Indeed, indeed. Always good to be reunited with old friends. My dove?” he called over to his wife, “shall we take our guests inside?”

Mrs. Feathertone nodded, regally, and smiled as Billy offered her his arm to escort her back into the house. The servants, well-trained in their duties, continued to attend to the rest of their accoutrements as they entered through the massive double doors and into the soaring entry hall of the house. 

The governor, talking cheerily the whole way, led the little group of four to a well-appointed sitting room near the front of the house, where they seated themselves on pretty but uncomfortable little chairs in front of a massive mantelpiece. They were followed at once by another maid, carrying a tray of cold drinks and fruit, which she set in front of them.

“Thank you, Mary,” the governor said with a smile, “that will do nicely. Will you see that we are not disturbed in the next hour please?” The maid bobbed a curtsy and exited the room, shutting the heavy door firmly behind her. 

Mrs. Featherstone immediately slumped down into her chair, yanking off the lace she wore around her neck that made her dress appropriate for the early afternoon hour. 

“ _Fuck _it’s already hot as balls out there, wearing that gown is going to be miserable tonight.”__

____

Abigail was a little startled at the change in the lady’s demeanor, but covered it, as the governor and Billy seemed unfazed. In fact, Governor Featherstone smiled at her adoringly, and said, “too true my darling, it really is such a bother.” 

____

Abigail felt a smile creeping onto her face. She could not for the life of her imagine the circumstances that had brought these two together (her lessons with Max had only afforded time for a very brief history, and only related to their ascension to the Governorship) but she couldn’t help but like them. They were an exceedingly mismatched pair—he rosy and cheerful and round, she pale and buxom and sharp. But underneath her sharpness there was a reciprocation of her husband’s affection, and Abigail sensed that despite the appearance of being ill-suited, they really loved each other. 

____

Mrs. Featherstone propped her feet up on the low table. “So Billy Bones,” she said, expression shrewd, “you’re one of the last people I thought I’d see back around here. And especially back in Max’s good graces. Anyone else I’d say it could only be your pretty face, but I suppose we both know that won’t have been the case with her. How’d you manage it?”

____

Billy ducked his head. “I’m at Max’s service until she tells me otherwise, that was the deal I made to return to Nassau.” 

____

He hadn’t really answered her question and they both knew it, but Mrs. Featherstone let it pass. Abigail wondered again at what history she was missing here, as it was clear that these two knew each other, and in unpleasant terms. 

____

“Mm. Well you aren’t the real brains of the operation anyway. That’d be you…Abigail?”

____

Abigail faltered, not sure how to answer without unintentionally lending her “yes” to the insult contained in the question at Billy’s expense. 

____

“That she is,” Billy said before she had a chance. 

____

Mrs. Featherstone smiled at him, conceding the point to his court. 

____

“Good. Well, Max’ll have prepared you for this evening better than I ever could. In fact, I don’t want to know anything more than I already do about what you’re here for—it helps me to play Governor’s wife and gracious hostess better if I don’t know what’s being pried out of who at my dinner table. You’ll be seated next to Mr. Finch at dinner, though I’ve put him in a different wing of the house for the night. Still, you’ll need to stay together for the evening in case he wanders out and about and wonders why a new husband wouldn’t stay with his bride. Other than that, it’s in your hands, understand?”

____

“Yes, I understand. Thank you.” Abigail said. 

____

“Now about dressing for tonight, you don’t have a maid with you, do you? Would you like me to send mine down to help?”

____

“Oh—” Abigail hesitated, feeling terribly out of practice for this sort of thing, “I…yes, actually. That would be most helpful ma’am, thank you.” 

____

“Right. I’ll send her to you an hour before dinner.” She turned to Billy, “that means I’ll expect you to clear off before then.” 

____

“Yes!” Governor Featherstone exclaimed, excitedly, “yes you must come join me in my study. Let the ladies make their preparations while we make ours—I have a rather nice bottle of sherry I’ve been keen to open. What do you say?”

____

“Of course, Governor, as you like.” Billy said, with a little half bow in his direction. 

____

The Governor laughed, heartily, and slapped his knee. “It’s settled then. I’ll be looking for you at six on the dot.” 

____

Mrs. Featherstone set her feet back on the ground, and reached for her discarded collar, tucking it back around her neck and into the front of her dress, smoothing her hair. 

____

“Right, well that takes care of business then does it? I’ll show you to your room. You can take the rest of the afternoon for whatever you need. Rest if you can—there’s a long night ahead.”

____


	18. Learning to Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy makes a decision about Abigail, James finally speaks with Silver

Billy did as he had been ordered, and made himself scarce from his and Abigail’s bedroom well before dinner preparations had even begun. In fact, he’d barely stepped foot in the place longer than it took to change his clothes.

He hadn’t particularly wanted to linger there. The thought of it as _his and Abigail’s_ room made his heart rise into his throat to the point that he feared he would choke on it. And that was without even letting himself look at the bed. They were to spend the night here together, of course—it was necessary to maintain their story and pretense of being man and wife, of course, of course, of course. He told himself many times over, hoping that the repetition would take away the painful bubble of hope and sorrow that welled and burst in his chest each time he thought about it. In the end he’d simply had to don his dinner clothing as fast as he could unpack it and flee for more neutral ground. Later was later, he thought, and he could survive until then much better if he were elsewhere. 

The result was that he spent a miserable afternoon lurking in the library, trying to avoid bustling servants making preparations for the evening’s celebration until Featherstone came to bundle him away for the promised glass of sherry. Actually, for three glasses of the promised sherry, all told. And although liquor generally had very little effect on Billy, he had to admit that his cheeks were feeling a little warm by the time Idelle knocked on the door to let them know that all the guests were assembling for dinner, and that it was almost time to go in. 

Billy was glad to be accompanied by Featherstone as they exited the study at the top of the stairs to the sight of a large group of people milling about below—Featherstone was both much drunker and much more important than he was, which he hoped meant that very few of the eyes suddenly turning their way were actually on him. 

At least, with the exception of one particular pair of dark eyes set in a pale face, which found his at once. 

His heart immediately leapt and then ceased to beat the moment that he saw her. Abigail was near the front of the group, standing alongside Idelle. But it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been in the center of a crowd of hundreds—his eyes still would have been drawn to her just as surely as they were now. 

The maid had done well by her. Abigail’s rich, glossy hair had been swept up into a crown atop her head, with curls cascading over one shoulder. Her dress—the dress that Max and Jack had had such a hard time deciding upon—was fairly simple, compared to some of the other guests’, the deep color of good wine. She smiled up at him, and he felt that that smile had undone something in him. He couldn’t possibly walk down these stairs, go in to dinner, eat, make conversation, dance, or any of it, because he quite simply no longer was—she’d unraveled him entirely. 

This was her world, he realized in that moment. This was where she had come from, and where she belonged. She would do well tonight, there was no doubt. She would be invaluable to Max for as long as she wanted to play these games. Then when she didn’t want to play them anymore, she would take the offer of an introduction somewhere—a real marriage, perhaps—and return to the life she was meant for, born for. 

He was here to play pretend. She didn’t need to. 

Their brief time of traveling toward the same point had come to an end, and he was a loose thread in the otherwise carefully woven pattern of her life. 

Then the instant passed, and Billy shook his head to drive away the last fuzzy musings of the sherry, descending the stairs alongside Featherstone, and offering her his arm. He smiled and nodded at the other party-goers, looking pleasant and cheerful just as they had rehearsed. But it was all mechanical. He sat at his spot at the long, lavish dining table mechanically, answered questions about sugar cane mechanically, ate cassoulet mechanically. Everyone who he talked to during the meal reported later that he was charming, if a little dull. 

Only Abigail sensed that something was off—but she would have been hard pressed to say exactly what, and her focus for the time being was entirely devoted to Mr. Finch. He watched her for a minute, watched the man be delighted by her serious expression and lively interest. He’d have spilled every last secret he knew to her by the time the main course was served, Billy thought, he was already in the palm of her hand. He sighed. He knew the feeling. 

When Billy examined himself, with the greater part of his mind which was not occupied with being a pleasantly unremarkable dinner guest, he figured out what the problem was. 

His heart was breaking. 

But it wasn’t just the breaking—that would have been simple enough. Because once a heart was done breaking, it was just broken. And broken, however painful, lies somewhere in the past tense. Billy now understood that for him, to be near Abigail was to every moment feel his heart break and be mended again by her presence. 

He realized also that he could not live with a heart that was breaking and remaking itself with each beat. And that the only way to escape it was to do the thing that his whole person screamed at him not to do—to go away somewhere and leave Abigail. To recognize his complete extraneousness in her life and walk away to let her live it. He would go somewhere far off, alone, and learn to live with a heart that was only irreparably broken. 

He’d play his part for tonight so that Abigail’s efforts were successful, he thought as he smiled and nodded over his right hand dinner partner’s long winded detailing of her carriage trappings. 

Then he’d go. It’s what Abigail would want too, he figured, if she’d thought about it at all.

***

At the very moment that Billy and Abigail were being served their dessert course of almond creams and port, the little sloop bringing James and Thomas back to Nassau was slipping into the harbor. 

James left Thomas with a light kiss, tucked into a corner table in the noisy tavern.

And he ascended the stair, making his way down the darkened passage to the very last door on the hall, which he opened without knocking and stepped inside.

Silver’s back was to him as he entered. He stood hunched over a sideboard on the far wall, and he spoke without turning when he heard the door. 

“My dear I know I am expertly efficient, but even I am not that quick—see I’ve only just opened the bottle—” he turned, a little awkwardly on his crutch, gesturing with the dark glass bottle in question in his hand. But he came up short as he realized that the figure in front of him was not the barmaid at all. He blanched, all the color draining in an instant from his face. 

“You bastard—” he rasped, voice shaking, “you…you bastard!” 

And he threw the bottle, which smashed several feet to James’ left against the stucco wall. But James didn’t pause to watch it. He strode across the room, closing the space between them in three long strides, and swept Silver into a firm embrace. 

Silver only balked for a moment, before his half-hearted attempt to pull away gave way instead to wracking sobs. “Bastard, bastard.” He repeated, softly, but the bite had gone out of the words as he wept into the front of James’ shirt. 

But when he had stilled the last of his sobs, he did push away, glaring with wet, red-rimmed eyes up at James. 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “What more could you possibly want here?”

James levelled him with a steady gaze, but didn’t reply. It wasn’t a real question. 

“You—god, you ruined me.” He said, half-turning away, with his hand to his face. “Is that what you want to hear? Is that why you came? For me to tell you that you were right? That I’m—that I’m nothing—” he stopped, voice breaking again. 

“No.” James said, quietly, as Silver looked away. “Because you aren’t. And I wasn’t. And I didn’t. You made a choice. It wasn’t right or wrong—it just was. I think you made it for good reasons. But if that choice wasn’t all that you planned for it to be, it’s no fault of mine, for I had no part in it.”

Silver laughed, bitterly. “Of course not. You are absolutely and entirely free of culpability here—that was the whole fucking point. So you could go somewhere else, completely unfettered, and live out your days happily.” He paused, looking at James out of the corner of his eye. “Where is Thomas? Or did he also prove to be less than enough for Captain Flint?” 

The last he spat venomously, throwing the words like a gauntlet, attempting to ignite Flint’s temper, so that at least they might both throw themselves into this meeting with the same reckless emotion. 

But James’ face remained unchanged. “Thomas is downstairs. Waiting for me to…to do what I must.” 

Silver’s shoulders slumped. “Of course he is.” 

“And we want you to come with us.” 

He turned his head, studying James’ expression for the trick or game, but finding only openness and hope there. “What?”

“We want you to come with us. We’re going to go back to Miranda’s house…to rebuild it. I have some money stored there. We want you to come. Leave this room and this tavern that’s full of all your worst memories behind, start something new.”

Silver gritted his teeth, staring at James for a long moment. “Why?” he asked at last. 

“Because you are not nothing to me.” He closed his eyes for a breath, gathering the courage to say what he’d really come here to say. 

“Because I loved you and I believe you loved me—because I cannot stand to see you stay here and slowly kill yourself when I know that faced with the possibility of watching me do the same, you sacrificed everything we’d made instead to keep me safe. To give me a life back that I never thought I’d know again.” 

Silver’s face quivered, and he looked down at the floor. 

“Because I don’t want us to be haunted by each other’s ghosts when it may be possible to share in each other’s lives instead.” 

He shook his head, just slightly. “I just wanted to walk away. I’ve done it before…so many times. I don’t know why I couldn’t just do it again this time.” 

“I know. But some stories can’t just be left behind. Can’t be forgotten.”

Silver swallowed, hard, and bit his lip. James took another tentative step forward, arms outstretched. This time, when he enfolded Silver in them, Silver didn’t fight him—but leaned into the embrace, stiffly at first, but then more sure. He dropped his crutch to the floor, and laid his head on James’ shoulder. 

“I don’t know to begin again.” He said, in a very small voice. 

“I don’t know either. But that’s why it is better not to try alone.”


	19. The Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening of the ball comes to an end for Abigail and Billy

Abigail entered the ballroom following dinner riding on a cloud of triumph. She’d learned almost everything Max had asked her to (and more) from Mr. Finch just at dinner alone, without even beginning the dancing. And if her success was due at least equally to her skill as it was to his stupidity, she was happy with that. 

Her high spirits made her feel light, lighter than she had in ages, since London, and she found herself actually eager to dance. 

The ballroom was in full splendor as the group entered it. Night had fallen outside while they ate, but the room was lit gloriously with hundreds of tall, winking taper candles in impressive holders ranged about the place. Swathes of silk bunting hung around the ceiling, and chairs were set artfully about for those who weren’t going to dance or who would be needing a break. There was a small orchestra set up at one end, ready to play. Everyone ooh-ed and ahh-ed appropriately at the display. They had all come through from dinner in their seating pairs, husbands and wives mixed up among the various guests (to keep conversation more interesting). 

But Governor Featherstone had asked that she and Billy—or Mr. and Mrs. Manderley anyway—open the dancing for the evening. Abigail turned, seeking him out in the crowd. He was never hard to find, being at least a head and shoulders taller than anyone else. But tonight he was especially easy for her to spot. He looked magnificent. He was dressed in a dark green suit, his crisp white shirt and cravat brilliant against his tanned skin. She caught his eye at once, with the realization that his were already on her, and it sent a thrill through her as he stepped forward to meet her. 

She was very glad that Governor Featherstone had done away with the formality of wigs at gatherings in Nassau, she thought, as Billy’s golden head bowed before her, holding out his hand to invite her to the floor. 

As the lead couple, they would begin the dancing alone on the floor, going through the first movement of the minuet just the two of them before the other couples joined. They faced each other in the center of the dance floor. For a brief moment, they simply stood, looking into each other’s faces in the candlelight, and Abigail felt that all the rest of the room faded to nothing. Billy’s eyes were on hers, and she glimpsed something in them that she couldn’t read, it was gone too quickly, but the something that she almost saw made her heart skip and cheeks burn. And then the music was beginning, and Billy bowed as she curtsied, reaching for her hand to begin the dance. 

Abigail’s steps were so light she felt as if she weren’t even touching the floor. She didn’t need to pay any attention to what her feet were doing, they seemed to know the way on their own, and so her entire mind was focused on Billy’s eyes, which seemed to be just as intent on her. They wove around each other, moving apart and back together, spinning and turning, and as many times as he released her hand, she felt the same little shock at his touch when he took it up again. 

Then the music changed, picking up speed, and it was time for the other dancers to join. Billy and Abigail separated, moving through the complicated pattern of steps which saw them dance with one partner and then the next and the next before returning to each other. 

When the song ended, Abigail was a little breathless. Billy kept hold of her hands, longer than dancing etiquette required. His brow was furrowed. 

“Abigail—” he began, but he was interrupted by Mr. Finch’s appearance at her elbow, asking her for the rigaudon. She was annoyed, but Billy smiled, and bowed, turning away to do his duty by the other guests and asking someone else to dance. 

Abigail wanted to go after him, grab his hands again, tell him to stay by her always, that she never wanted to be parted again even for a moment…but she shook her head, and turned a smile to Mr. Finch. There was still work for her to do. She and Billy would have time later, tomorrow maybe, or the next day, when things were more normal. 

***

They were not much together after their first dance. Both were in great demand as partners, and as such cajoled by the other dancers not to be selfish in keeping each other to themselves. But neither’s eyes were very long off the other. 

For Abigail, she couldn’t help but be proud that she was the one on Billy’s arm, as the other women fawned over him. None of those others knew him, knew the depth of his heart and hope and sorrow. Every time she caught his eye, his face changed, an expression reserved just for her. It was like a drug to her, and she couldn’t help but seek it out again and again. 

For Billy, every glance was against his better judgement. His mind told him that now was the time for him to start detaching himself, to begin preparing for the inevitable loss of Abigail. But he still sought her out, every few minutes, through the crowd, even as it hurt to see her—beautiful and alive and shining in her element. He was standing outside of a window looking in on a scene he could not fully be a part of, but he couldn’t make himself look away either. 

At last, people began more and more to yawn politely behind their hands, filling the chairs along the sides of the long room rather than dancing. The conductor turned and bowed, and the band began to put away their instruments. 

Abigail’s heart began to flutter against her ribcage, urgent and erratic. She hadn’t let herself think much about the logistics of sharing a room with Billy tonight. She hadn’t worried about it. But now, he was coming across the room, offering her his arm, and they were to leave together. To that one room. 

Her worry wasn’t that something would happen that she didn’t wish. Billy, she was certain, would make no move toward her. In fact, the fear that suddenly gripped her was that they would return in silence. That he would retreat quietly to the sofa in the corner, or the chaise under the window. And that would be that. That even though they would be close enough to hear one another’s breath, they would still be separated by too great a gap for either of them to close. And morning would come and the space would grow and grow and grow and never be crossed. 

She’d grown paler as she thought it, on their walk to the guest wing of the house. Billy noticed the pink draining away from her cheeks, and imagined that it was fear of him and their being alone. That was fine, he thought. He would put distance between them as soon as he was able, that she might relax. 

As soon as the door was shut behind them, he moved away from her, off to his side of the room. The one concession that had been made in the preparation of it for the fact that they weren’t actually married was two wooden screens set up in opposite corners, to provide them with privacy while dressing. Billy immediately disappeared behind his, so Abigail, under a crashing wave of anguish, did the same. 

It was difficult, extricating herself from the elaborate dress on her own, but she managed it eventually. Abigail left it in a crumpled heap, hoops and silk and trim all looking as deflated as she felt. She slipped a brocade dressing gown over her light cotton shift, tying it tight at the front. 

She crept out from behind the screen, sitting down at the vanity table along the wall without looking around to Billy’s side of the room, and began the process of taking the pins out of her hair.

But her avoidance tactic was flawed, as the minute she looked into the mirror to attend to her hair she saw him reflected behind her. 

He sat on the low chaise on his side of the room, beside the screen. He’d removed some of his outer things, but hadn’t changed into any kind of sleeping clothes. He still wore his starched white shirt and breeches. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them, and head hung low as well. He was very still, and didn’t look up as Abigail moved to her table. She bit her lip, still taking pins out of her hair slowly, eyes sharp for any movement from him. There was none. 

Finally there was a pile of pins on the table before her, and none left in her hair, which fell around her shoulders in loose, tousled waves. Her breath came fast. She didn’t know why, but this felt like a precipice—that if she simply blew out her lantern and went to sleep, there wouldn’t be tomorrow or the next day or the day after that to find out what lay between them. That instead the opportunity would vanish like an extinguished flame and be lost to her. It was a possibility that she couldn’t bear. She shut her eyes tight, screwing up all the courage she could muster. 

Then she stood, and on silent feet crossed the great yawning chasm of the floor between them. 

Abigail knelt in front of him, and took his hands in hers. He didn’t startle as she’d expected, but raised his head slowly to meet her eyes, and she saw that his were glinting with unshed tears. 

“Billy,” she said, and it came out as a whisper. “Kiss me.” 

His brow furrowed as if in pain, and he reached out a gentle hand to cradle her neck. He ran his thumb along the line of her jaw. His hand was shaking slightly. But he did not move to kiss her. 

“Kiss me,” she said again. 

He leaned forward, face tilting toward her, and brushed his bottom lip along hers so lightly that she might have imagined it. She leaned into the kiss, and his lips found hers fully, though still so, so gently. She closed her eyes, savoring the softness of his mouth. Then his tongue flicked against her tongue, tasting her, and she was lost completely. She was grateful that she wasn’t standing, for she was certain that her legs would not have held her as she melted into nothing but her awareness of him, his taste, his smell, his mouth. She slid her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to her as the kiss deepened. 

Billy pulled away, and Abigail made a small, anguished noise, instantly bereft at the absence. But he was pulling her up off of her knees, onto his lap, where his arms wrapped strong and tight around her waist, crushing her to him. She twined her arms about his neck, and then his mouth was there again, this time kissing her hungrily, almost desperately, and she responded. She wanted to drown in him, never to breath air again that wasn’t scented with his skin. 

Abigail broke away, trailing her lips down his long neck along the open collar of his shirt, his panting breath in her ear. He tasted of salt and sea and sage. 

If she had been standing outside of herself, she would have been shocked at her own boldness. But it felt absolutely right, that this was the only thing she had ever been meant to do. She tugged at the bottom of his shirt, loosening it from the top of his breeches so that she could slide her hands beneath it. He gasped a little as her fingers found his bare skin, tracing the rigid lines of muscle there and up along his back. He shifted their weight, turning Abigail so that he could press her against the back of the chaise with his body, lips finding her again, one of his hands tangled in her curls at the nape of her neck. 

When his other hand found the knot of her dressing gown belt though, she broke away with a gasp. 

“Wait…” He moved his hand at once, pulling back far enough that he could look into her face, eyes serious. 

“I…I haven’t…I’ve never done this.” She said, her voice coming out hoarse. 

He lowered his eyes, lashes sweeping across his cheeks, and suddenly found himself blushing. 

“I uh…I haven’t either.” He said. 

Abigail didn’t bother to cover her surprise and disbelief. “What?”

“I just never…never did.” He bit his lip. Though he had no reason to suppose it would be unhappy news to Abigail, it was one of his closest kept secrets. Something no one had ever known but him. 

“Why?”

He shrugged. “There were lots of chances I guess. But I didn’t want to pay for it. I wanted it to be with someone...” he hesitated, “someone I loved.” 

He let the words hang there, eyes still downcast, until Abigail put her small, cool hand to his cheek, making him meet her eyes. 

“You love me?” she asked, searching his face. 

“Yes,” he answered, in a rough whisper. “I love you Abigail.” 

She sighed. “Good. For I love you, and intend to keep you near me, for as long as you will let me.” 

He closed his eyes tight, resting his forehead against hers. “Forever. As long as I live.”

She kissed him again then, softly, and she rose from his lap. She drew him by the hand toward their bed—drawing him to her for one last, particular dance to complete their night as Mr. and Mrs. Manderley.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

“Hand me that hammer will you?” James said, words mumbled around a mouthful of nails. 

Silver hopped forward, stretching the hammer up to where James stood on the ladder, working on the roof. 

“You know what I don’t understand,” Silver said, “is why you insist that this house be built by a sea captain and two cripples when you could easily hire someone to do the work.” 

James grinned down at him, taking the hammer. “Because nobody else is me and I didn’t want anyone else touching it.” 

“Surprise surprise,” Silver muttered, rolling his eyes. But he couldn’t help smiling at James’ cheery, contented face. He was even humming to himself as he worked. 

“Anyway,” James said, after a few minutes hammering, “it’s good for both of your legs to help me. Look at Thomas, he’ll be up running about on that thing in no time.” 

Thomas was at the moment seated in the cool earth of Miranda’s ravaged garden, his injured leg stretched out straight in front of him as he pulled weeds with wicked efficiency. It was his own special project at the new house, something they both thought Miranda would have approved of. 

Silver made a sort of doubtful noise through his nose, but James noted that he did pick back up the trowel and bucket he’d been using, and began again to spread stucco on the outside of the new guest room with renewed energy. 

The sound of horses on the narrow gravel track to the house made them all pause, shading their eyes against the afternoon sun to see who it was arriving. 

James, with the advantage of height, was able to make out the pair on horseback before either of the others, and called merrily out to them, “Abigail! Billy!” 

Abigail waved, standing in her stirrups. The revelation of riding a horse like a man rather than sidesaddle was the best thing that had happened to her in Nassau, she liked to tell Billy, teasingly, making him kiss her until she took it back. Billy grinned and dismounted, taking both of their reins to tie the horses while Abigail hurried to give Thomas a kiss on the cheek and receive James’ bear hug. 

“Anything I can help with?” Billy asked, taking of his jacket as he walked toward them. 

“No, no!” James protested, wiping his hands on the canvas apron he wore, “you’ve got to remember the habits of a gentleman now, and a gentleman doesn’t get his shirtsleeves dirty with work like.” 

“ _Excuse_ me,” came Thomas’ indignant, muffled cry from where he sat, very muddy indeed, in the garden. 

James winked at him, “A gentleman who wishes to avoid gossip and censure in any case, my love, and we can at least both agree you were never that.” 

“Hmph.” Said Thomas, good-naturedly. “Well anyway, a gentleman may give another a hand up—come here Billy and help me.” 

When they were all standing and as thoroughly brushed off as possible (James insisted, he liked keeping their new floors tidy), they all entered the house, chatting happily. 

Though the house wasn’t yet finished, the two main rooms were, and James was always pleased at the chance to show it off. He made Billy, who hadn’t seen any of the place since he had come to help raise the frame, tour with him all of the rooms that had been completed since then, outlining his plans for further improvements with enthusiasm. Thomas occasionally added his input, shouting from the sitting room about this or that. 

Silver stayed fairly quiet for him. He and Billy had reached a silent sort of truce since meeting again, but they had never been able to begin the kind of new friendship which Billy and Flint had managed to forge. It was fine with both of them to leave things that way—sometimes it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. 

After the tour, James put on the kettle for tea. Thomas set the table, directing Abigail to help him lay things out. They’d bought a tea set shipped from England that looked nothing like the one that had been used in the Hamilton’s house. It was red-patterned and garish and both agreed Alfred Hamilton would have hated it. But one place setting was laid with a chipped, white and blue cup. It was one of the only salvageable items left in the burnt husk of Miranda’s house. Thomas and James took turns drinking from it during their afternoon teas, and it sat in a place of honor on the mantelpiece when not in use. 

The room was reminiscent of how it had been when Miranda lived there, but it wasn’t the same. That was by nature as much as design, based on the tastes of different people putting it together. It was a good deal more full of various interesting items, for Thomas had ever been a collector of anything that caught his eye, and John, who had never had a home before in which he could accrue anything was following his lead with enthusiasm. But it was warm and welcoming as James had always found Miranda’s and his home to be. 

The walls were lined with shelves of books, most of which, if one were to pick one up and look inside, contained notes between a T.H. and J.M. In fact, rare was the book these days which found its way to their shelves without an addition to its flyleaf. There was even a worn, water-stained copy of _The Metamorphoses_ with a note addressed to J.S. (who generally read much less than the other two) signed by both, which read simply “Always, always enough for us.” And though John found Ovid a bit abstruse, he often took it from the shelf just to run his hand over those scrolling letters. 

The five of them sat down at the table, everyone eager to hear about Billy and Abigail’s impending trip to Boston, where they would be meeting with Madame Guthrie and gathering various intelligence to bring back to Max. It was their first trip since their marriage, and their first time traveling as Mr. and Mrs. Manderley in truth as well as in name. They held one another’s hand throughout the meal, unwilling to let each other go. James and Thomas exchanged a secret smile when they noticed—young love was a precious thing. 

Thomas wanted to know all about Boston, which he had found from stories had greatly changed in the years since his removal from the news of the world. While they talked, James poured the tea, dropping one lump of sugar in both his and Thomas’ cup by long habit, and two into Silver’s. 

Silver, meanwhile, though he was still somewhat apart from the group of four, unsure as of yet his place in its makeup, was eager to serve everyone with scones and chicken in cream sauce. He was secretly very proud of the fact that he had, against all the odds, learned to cook at last. Thomas had been teaching him some things over the past couple of months, and James some others, and he’d found to his surprise that he actually quite liked it. James reached for his hand after he set down the food, giving him an encouraging smile.

There was a lull in the conversation as everyone sipped their tea. Abigail squeezed Billy’s hand under the table. Thomas smiled his crinkly-eyed smile. Silver watched nervously to see if everyone was eating. 

And James McGraw, beaming, felt as if his heart might burst with trying to contain more happiness than one person could hold.


End file.
